What was I thinking?

With dreams of a mane gorgeous enough to rival friend Elizabeth's, decided four months ago to let my hair grow out. What was I thinking!!

Well, honestly, I figured if I started then it might be long enough to pull back into a stately bun or elegant chignon in time for granddaughter's nuptial. Sixteen months to achieve the nigh unto impossible.

Not that my locks don't grow. They do. I've put my hairdresser's two kids through college on what it cost to maintain that Jamie Lee Curtis style. And talk about thick. Heck, you could sew Army blankets with it.

No, the problem is not with what's on top of my head, it's with what's inside. Lived for years hearing my mother preach that no woman over the age of 30 should have hair longer than her earrings. And then, of course, the military echoed the same refrain, and by the time I was 40 I was totally resigned to wash-and-wear hair. Now it's long enough to scratch under my collar but not long enough to pull back without using eighty bobby pins (do they even call them that anymore?) and every morning I'm having serious doubts about the future of my do.

To compound the fracture, hubby looked at me when I got home from Church (remember Sunday’s rain and 60 mph wind gusts?) and told me my hair is too tall. Sigh.

Anybody got a spare babushka?