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August 27, 2012

A few weeks ago, I got bangs.  In a moment of brazen abandonment, I told my hairdresser Shauna to go ahead and chop it off.  She knew exactly what I meant because this is something I had thrown out at all of my hair appointments for about a year.  I’d say “I’m thinking about bangs…they seem to be coming back…maybe next time.”  Well, next time was last time.  I did it.

It’s amazing how much a little fringe can change your appearance.  The general consensus amongst my family and friends is that the bangs make me look younger.  Every time someone says that to me, I say “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing when you’re 27.”  And their simple observation caused me to realize that 27—the age I am right now—might very well be the perfect age.  The prime of life.  Maybe for a man it’s a little older; I would venture it is somewhere between 33 and 37.  But for a woman in this youth-obsessed society, I believe 27 is the prime age.  At 27 you are old enough to have established some financial clout and direction in life; old enough to have shed much of the teenage insecurity surrounding your appearance; old enough to have begun to discover some of your great passions in life.  At the same time, you are young enough to be free of many of our societal expectations and preconceptions; young enough to have a family or not have a family; young enough to be strong and free to pursue all sorts of physical and emotional adventures; and young enough to be unburdened by the woes of aging like wrinkles, thinning hair, and spider veins.

And then I got a little sad, thinking about how I might very well be at the prime of my life.  That means it’s all downhill from here.  So despite the airtight logic in my argument about 27 being the perfect age, I hope that I’m wrong. I hope I continue to discover new and exciting facets of life each day.  I hope that I will continue to think that every new birthday brings me to ‘the perfect age.’

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