When I grow old, I am going to have long hair. None of that short, curly, blue hinting of beehive stuff for me. I want hair longer than I’ve ever had before. And I will wear it down. not in a crown, not in a spinstery old bun, not even in a ponytail. Down, long, gray, or white, whichever fate turns it to be. Even though my grandmother will be shaking her head in her grave, because everyone knows that when you grow up, you put away the childish idea of long hair and cut it to a sensible length for a responsible woman and wife and mother.
When I grow old, I want to go on walks in the park. At dusk, at dawn, in the afternoon. And if I can’t walk, I want to sit and watch the people as they go by. I don’t want to go hiding in a hole, just because I’m not with it anymore. I want to gracefully accept the fact that I’m not keeping up with the times, but still do my best to understand them. I want to watch people, and remember things, and be comforted by the fact that no matter how far into the future we progress, people will still be people. They will laugh, cry, worry, love, hate, serve, and be served, no matter what era we are in.