It’s eight in the evening, and I’m at a local coffee shop. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace just a few feet away, and I feel like a marshmallow melting into a cup of hot chocolate. Granted, I could get up and move. Everyone else has left the room. But I spend so much of the winter freezing that I’m trying to enjoy sitting here on this leather chair in a pool of my own sweat. Gotta soak up the heat while you can! I mean, short of getting the flu, it could be months before I feel this warm again.

Flu, flu, go away.

I spent this afternoon with my friend Bekah. She’s a hairstylist, and we met a few years ago after I’d dyed my hair blonde then back to brown. The first time I sat in her chair, she said, “Hi, I’m Bekah. What the hell did you do to yourself?” We’ve gotten along famously ever since. Anyway, this morning she called and asked if I could help her install a new ceiling fan in her salon, and I said, “I’d be glad to–the one you have now is hideous.” (Our relationship is clearly built on honesty.)

Y’all, we installed the fan, but it wasn’t pretty. I know what I’m doing–really–but I’ve never been able to install a ceiling fan correctly on the first try. Each one is a little different in terms of mounting, wiring, and assemblage. Plus, I don’t always read directions word for every damn word. Anyway, we got the entire thing up–bulbs in and everything–and the fan worked but the lights didn’t. “Shit,” I said, “I guess that blue wire we ignored really was important.” Down came the entire ceiling fan, one light bulb and blade at a time. And there the blue wire was, just waiting for another wire to connect with. (Join the club, buddy.) Thirty minutes later, we were officially in business. Everything worked!

At some point Bekah and I started comparing childhoods, connecting over our respective challenges, times we had to go back and start again. As the conversation continued, so did the work. You know how one thing leads to another. First we hung the old (hideous) fan in one of the other rooms, since the (equally hideous) fan in there was broken, then I started rewiring an antique barber pole lamp back in Bekah’s salon. Suddenly Bekah said, “Be right back. Gotta take a kid to dance.” The next thing I knew, I was up in the salon all by myself. Well, Bekah’s dog Charlie was there with me, but he wasn’t much help. “Just stick around,” Bekah had said as she walked out the door. “I’ll cut your hair when I get back.” So that’s what I did. First I fixed the lamp, then I worked on a writing project until Bekah returned and cut my hair.

I took the above picture while I was waiting on her, so it’ll have to be tomorrow before you can see the new do. #suspense

During my haircut, Bekah pointed out a couple gray hairs in my widow’s peak. That felt good. She also pointed out several oddly long hairs growing out of my ears. You know the type–strays. I like to think of them as well-intentioned gentlemen who simply got lost on their way to my scalp. Like they took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. I imagine them thinking, Oh my gosh, how did I end up HERE? Bekah said, “Growing old sucks. One day everything is tight, and the next day everything is jiggly.” I said, “Seriously. Age requires so much vigilance. Just keeping my nose hairs under control is a full-time occupation.”

Thank god for professional help.

Now the coffee shop is about to close. Today hasn’t gone anything like I thought it would. I’d imagined myself resting at home, maybe reading a book. But I wouldn’t trade it. Earlier I talked to a woman I met through swing dancing. It was her story I was writing while Bekah was gone. She told me that when her husband left her and her daughters a few years ago, she said, “Okay, we’re on our own now. Let’s look at this like an adventure.” Later, when she and one of her daughters decided to try swing dancing, she said, “We’re going to do something brave.” I can’t tell you how much I love this story. I think it’s the perfect way to grow older. May we see each day as an adventure, and each of us brave for being honest with each other, trying new things, and being willing to start over when a ceiling fan, or even an entire life, doesn’t work the first time.