To paraphrase poet Mary Oliver's oft-quoted question, what art do I plan to make with the last part of my wild and precious life?

Before I grew into a wanna-be-hippie teen who clashed with his conservative values, I remember my father and me as “pals”. We have similar tastes and temperament and everyone said I looked the most like him of his four children. He doted on me and over the years we shared a secret or two: teenage transgressions with boys and drinking on my side, the same, with middle-aged women on his.

Aside from a regrettable attempt at a cut-it-all-off “hair dare” when I was in my late 20’s, I have always had long, curly dark hair. When I imagined myself as an old woman, it was with this same long hair, only gray. I would own the aging, but not the loss of a certain wildness of youth that the length alluded to. My adult son even encouraged this vision, assuring me that I would look ‘awesome’.