Here’s how you know you’re old

Got my hair done at the hairdresser. Dyed. Cut. Styled. Then came home, put on a t-shirt and spent the night hugging dogs and birds while watching TBBT reruns.

But I looked damn fine sitting on that couch.

In my youth, the whole hair thing would have been an excuse to go out. In my old age, it’s just what I have to do once a month to continue to look civilized enough to be in polite company.

All things considered, I’d rather be with my animals. And they don’t give a crap what my hair looks like.