...and the hair is marvelous!

My hair stylist is a magician. Every three months she gets her hands on my mop of hair, and restores it to a lovely condition, with no more roots, thinned and trimmed; makes me feel, if only for a few days, like my inner freakiness is well-disguised.
Near the end of our morning walk, Mother showed signs of being about to pass out as we approached the steps to our house; having her fall ascending them is one of my big worries, so I told her she was on the final pitch, which she usually announces, and she counted the steps to the porch. Don't know if this is a harbinger of impending weakening, or just one of those crazy things. She has forgotten it by the time she's seated on the couch, with her electrolyte-enriched water and her book.
Another pretty good session at the climbing joint, again with the coach's girlfriend. She's getting onto more challenging routes, getting back into it, and seems motivated. Lots of buddies arrived, and everyone was off and scaling. Upon returning home, cooking up a quicky sort of cassoulet, I got the talk from our son, who's urging me to get out on Real Rock, and not spend so much time inside. Well, if it hadn't been raining, hailing and otherwise being miserable for the past month,
and I'd had the mobility to go south to get away from the local weather, I'd have been more likely to get out somewhere. He tells me it's fear that binds me; I say, it's caution due to my age.
Always a divide.