Counting “Lasts”

As I inch closer to my birthday, I can’t help but acknowledge the “lasts” of my thirties. My last NYE in my thirties, my last cookout, last time seeing so-and-so, last whatever. Today it was my last haircut. After two and a half months, I desperately needed cleaned up. It felt wonderful to walk out of the barbershop feeling lighter with that familiar cold draft along the top of my ears and neck.

I caught myself becoming quietly sentimental about the hair that was left on the floor of the shop knowing it wouldn’t follow me to a new decade. It’s not a feeling I like or want, yet it occasionally happens. As absurd as I know it is, I’ve learned it’s better to let it happen and move on from it instead of trying to stop it.