cowlicks

I wear a cowlick. There’s nothing for it but to grin and bear it. And try not to be too conscious of the huge gaping forehead it inevitably doesn’t shadow. Pa has one. But he’s a man and wears Lucky Tiger and can get away with things like cowlicks. And pompadours. Me…I’m thinking about taking up hats. Again. Maybe even headscarves. Zadie Smith pulls them off. Why can’t I? (Please don’t answer that.)

Ten years ago I never smiled for photos. I never even sat for them. As a consequence I have zero images of myself at that age. Not even in my college yearbook. And I regret it. My twenties were about being self-conscious. My thirties will be about not being anything like that. At all.

No makeup. No fancy hair part to offset the tongue-print. No trying to hide my wonky teeth. (FYI: I’ve never had a cavity in my life. But my canines are small. And pointy. I look like a vampire when I broad-smile. And I don’t like that.)

The Euro took this photo of me at my brother’s house in West Virginia. I don’t hate it. And I’m not ashamed to say that. When I was twenty, I would have been.

I think I’m going to start doing this every year.

Buffy Holt. Age: I’d rather not say. 🙂