... how therapeutic it can be, to let random thoughts pour out onto a page. Yesterday, my daughter and I went to get haircuts. Nothing fancy, just a stranger stylist giving me a numbered cut from a catalog. "Get Back" was playing on the radio, and my mind wandered to Woodstock. I must have heard a number from the "Let it Be" album in every shop I explored -- songs I hadn't heard in years. I pointed out to one shop owner that he was playing the entire album. He said, "Don't tell on me, I don't have the rights to." And, now, back in Vermont, another. The song was out of place in a salon. "Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman, but she was another man," or maybe it wasn't. I suppose there's no better place to pretend you're someone you're not than in a salon. My freshly cut bangs and sleek straightening felt like me but not me. I liked how the cut framed my face but, at heart, I'm a free spirit who likes to let waves of hair crash against my face, sun dried with streaks of gray.