About fourteen hours

I wondered how long it would take for my mother to "notice" that I've gained weight. That's another thing that intrigues me: over the last year and a half, she's surprised to "find" that I've gained weight. Now, if I'd actually gained weight cumulatively, I'd be a lot bigger than I am. Apparently, I haven't gained enough weight that she commits to memory the fact that I've gained weight. So, her remarks about my weight tend to point out that I'm not as thin as I was in my twenties.

She came up and put her arm around me.

Mom: It used to be that your ribs protruded. Now, you have... a layer there.

Ten minutes later

Mom: Your hair used to be parted differently. Did you change it?
A.: No.
Mom: Yes, you did. I can tell.

I don't change my hair. There are two parts to that: I don't know how to change my hair, and my hair is not amenable to deliberate change. It does what it does.

My hair--like that of many a Jewish woman-- is the subject of as much comment as my weight, perhaps because (no pun intended) my dad feels free to weigh in on it as well. I tend to ignore both of them. The comments are annoying, but I don't take them personally, and sometimes I don't disagree-- I mean, I just told you, my hair has a mind of its own.

What actually bothers me more is when people other than my parents comment about my hair, because they suggest I should lighten it, and while I'll admit that my hair is difficult with regard to texture, the color is just plain beautiful and there is no reason on earth to mess with it. Some people think, reflexively, that blond is better, and they are welcome to abuse their own hair with bleach as the weapon of choice. I'll stay with my beautiful, rich dark brown.