It’s a bit of a cliché for a woman to shave her head bald and move to New York City. When she’s 20.
I was 42.
Now I’m 61 and I wear half my head in a platinum blonde crew cut and the other half shoulder length. I tend to dress like a 9 year old boy most days except when I go to work. Then I dress like a respectable dyke right down to my Doc Martens.
That’s us not giving a you-know-what about what anyone thinks we should be wearing, not wearing, doing, not doing, being, not being. And there are more of us all the time.
But I do have an agreement in place.
My good friend, Joanne, has promised to give me The Baby Jane Alert the minute my insides shift and it’s clear I can’t get away with this kind of behavior anymore.
So if I suddenly feel ridiculous with half my head freshly shaved, wearing my ancient yinyang T-shirt, I can count on Joanne to lovingly take my hand and steer me over to where the ladies who act their age hang out.
Until then, bugger off. I’ll wear and do and be whatever I want.
And you get to do the same.
Take advantage of that before your friends give you The Baby Jane Alert!
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