File this under the "you know you're getting old when" category:
I'm at the salon last Saturday, getting my locks hacked off because the only hairstyle I seem to be able to manage these days is a ponytail, and it. is. tired. It's not a hairstyle, really, it's a cop-out. So I got my hair cut quite short, as I've been telling you I might. It's cute. It's kind of sassy. It's low-maintenance (except that now I'll have to get it trimmed more regularly).
But while I was at the salon, blabbing to my stylist, the Fabulous Christine/a (more on that later), she said to me, "I can not believe how old you are. I mean, like when you're telling these stories and you're saying, 'When I was 32' and that was like, before you met your husband, and you've been married, like, what?"
"Yeah, and I mean, you don't look a day over 30."
For the record, I am thirty-six. And a half. And evidently I am at the age where looking 30 is a compliment. Cheezus!
The Fabulous Christine/a is all of 24 years old. I would have pegged her at 27. I'm not being bitchy, I swear. And the reason I call her the Fabulous Christine/a is that everyone (including her) calls her Christina, but her business card says Christine.
At any rate, she is a fabulous hair stylist, so I am not mad at her. Not really.