When I notice my thinning hair, I'm sort of startled. I imagine that a different "hairdryer technique" might erase the problem. I look at photos from my thirties--and there seems to be a watershed moment, a moment when I switch from "normal" hair to middle-aged hair. I didn't sign on for this. Lucy Sante grew up as "Luc." She suspected that she was really female. She felt uncomfortable during sex; she was dismayed when, in her thirties, her waist thickened from a size 29 to a 34 ("sometimes 36"). Once, she moved into an apartment where a red floral blouse had been discarded. She wore it a bit, in secret, and it became the main topic of her fantasies (possibly for years and years). During COVID, in her sixties, Lucy began experimenting with FaceApp. She could program the app to show her an image of her face with any "gender wish" she had an interest in. This was an earthshaking moment; she thought, I'm not Luc. I'm Luc...
One of my favorite children's books, "Owen," concerns a little mouse who won't give up his security blanket. The nutty next-door neighbor warns that Owen will be judged for clinging to the blanket; she advises punitive measures, such as dipping the blanket in foul-smelling vinegar. (The author, Kevin Henkes, is a continual source of free therapy for me. He observes adult anxiety with a compassionate eye. When I was stressed about how to manage my daughter's hair, I would think of a passage from "Still Sal." In that novel, the father runs a brush twice through the lustrous locks of his little hyperactive girl. "Good enough," he says cheerfully, and he moves on with his day.) So far, no one has urged my younger child to get rid of her own security blanket, which takes the form of a stuffed dog, "Tiny Doggie." But the dog is a kind of battlefield. If I want to wash it, I have to trick my daughter into distracting herself; the moment sh...