Aunt Elizabeth keeps me on my toes.
"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."
I do know. It's a mistake to let yourself go; no matter how many pressing intellectual, lofty pursuits are stacking up in your inbox, if you don't at least try to look good, what's the point?
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.
Here I am six months later. You're so right, the only one looking good here is little hairless one. I keep these pictures around to stay grounded, because it's all too easy for me to drift from the physical to the immaterial.
And I can hear the hair alarm now. It sounds strangely like Aunt Elizabeth.