As she was cutting my hair, she was leaning towards the girl in the chair next to me, explaining, "He was 35. I mean, c'mon, I'm 23. And he was 35." I know she didn't mean it that way. But I took it that way. I just keep telling myself the longer she cuts my hair, the older she'll get. And stop saying things like, "No, you're not old." But I'll always be 30 and sitting on the couch in my sweatpants at 7:45 on Saturday night. And she'll always be jetting off to Mexico to meet guys in the hot tub.
No, I'm not bitter.
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