Learning to Age

Regina and I leave the theater after seeing the film, The Women. I wash my hands in the restroom while Regina waits for me outside. The light is bright in there, and fluorescent.

"Damn!" I run my hands over my hair and through it. "I just got it cut!"

I catch up with Regina and we're cruising down the street in search of libation and ambiance. I say to her, completing the thought I had in the bathroom:

"Who does your hair? I think I need another haircut." I touch my hair again, surprised I would consider such a thing only two weeks after a really great cut. It usually lasts months.

Then I realize. "Oh."

I drop my hands. "It's not my hair."

I walk ahead and think back to the mirror I was just looking into in the bathroom.

"It's my face!"