"Let It Grow," My Barber Said. "If You Have Hair at Your Age, Celebrate It." Okay. But My Bones Aren't Growing. They're Aching.

I woke up to see Edem shoveling the driveway (a feat), all while it was still coming down (phew! We could be Binghamton). He gave up when it came to the end of the driveway where the plows left their street dump. I went out to the garage, and (it's magic), the snow plow that my father found on the side of the road and gave to me while I lived in Cicero doing my doctorate - the one that is rusted, 30 years old, and in horrible shape - started on the first pull. 

Again.

I have a gem in this antique. And she went to work for four hours, as I cleaned up my driveway, and did those of my aged neighbors. Usually they scream and fight with me, but this year they simply pounded their windows and mouthed, "Thank you."

More difficult was the shovel work, which I did on my own driveway and theirs. I also did the back patio for Glamis. How did I celebrate the workout? WITH MY NEW SKIS!!! I had to try them, and I went out for a couple of hours making trails in the park next to my home. Last night, when I finished writing at 9:30, I said, "Crandall, you are going to pay in the a.m.. Your body will collapse." 

Meanwhile, I took a shower and didn't pull my hair back in a man bun. It's getting long, and I am definitely living my midlife crisis. I went to the barber to cut it all off and he said (from his Hatian, balding perspective), "Nope. You have hair. Grow it out. You can. You know how many men would love to have hair again."

And look at that. I'm in my Binghamton t-shirt that I've cut up to run in, but am hiding underneath a flannel. Looks like I'm channeling 1990-1994, and 1994-1998 right now. That's when I established my postmodern hippie tendencies. Let them return, even if the hair is growing out gray.

At least I still have it.

And I have skis. I'm heading to the beach today to try them out there.