There's a guy in my office, I call him "the aging paralegal," who for about five years now has commented every time I've gotten a haircut. "You look so young," he says, "every time you cut your hair short." The truth is that I like him every time he says this. I like him a lot. I like looking young, and I like anyone who says I look that way. I don't worry that he's blowing smoke up my butt hole because there's simply no way he's gay. He's a former football player for Central Michigan University and, trust me, he's not packing fudge. I'd grown to count on his standard compliment every time I got a haircut, to take it for granted. But the last time I'd buzzed it off I got nothing. This concerned me. Was I looking older. Was the antidepressant putting so much fat on my face that haircuts did nothing for me. And then, relief. I got shorn on Saturday and Monday the not gay, aging paralegal who once played football for Central came through for me. Young again.
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