"Your closet! Your closet!" She wails at the sight of me, her plea for me to pay closer attention to what I wear.
Under her severe gaze, I'm a child again, whining that I have neither the time nor the inclination.
My aunt is, as always, unflinching. "Your hair, too. People expect that, you know."

When I let myself go, it isn't pretty. The first thing to fall apart is my hair. When I gave birth to my first child, I started out thinking I could be a mom and look good.

And I can hear the hair alarm now. It sounds strangely like Aunt Elizabeth.