I think it's time to throw in the towel on the hair thing and just go get it cut. I could get a good 2 inches hacked off and still have shoulder length hair. Mostly I just don't want to have to deal with product and styling every frickin' day.

I know. Whining. I should just suck it up and realize that I am 3 months through the 6 months my hairdresser said it would take to grow out my layers.

But these bangs, people. Ugh.

I've been thinking about summers when I was a child. Before summers became about seeing what I could accomplish without my mother finding out. (Actually, that probably only encompasses the summer I turned 12, but I digress.) In those days, my mother's best friend was Sharon. They related to each other because they both had alcoholic husbands and no money. Otherwise, they had nothing in common. My mother was not fond of children and showed a truly glaring moment of good judgement by only having the one. Sharon had 4 in as many years, and usually took on any of us neighborhood waifs as would fit in their tiny trailer. (Her kids resented her for this, eventually, as they could never believe we were hanging around to be with one of them. Which was true, for me. It was the atmosphere I craved.) The four children and I were of a similar enough age that we could hang without too much drama. Sometimes of our own choosing, but mostly by our mothers' , which later became forced, but in these early days was fine. And did I mention we were poor? Like so poor. Nana was on welfare that summer, still reeling from Dad's abrupt departure into Blondland. Sharon never had any money because she didn't work and her husband drank all of his paycheck every week.

Good times, good times.

What I was remembering, in particular, were our weekly trips to the library. We lived in a sleepy little farm community, at good 20 minute drive from anything remotely interesting. By the time I'd reached Jr. High School I had already read everything of interest in our local two room library (although, I swear it still had more books that my current local library, which is easily 5 times its size). So this summmer began our journey's to the "big library" in the neighboring "big city".

I will say that I loved this library. It was huge - two stories and as big as the nearest hospital to our home town. It was floor to ceiling windows on two sides and smelled sooooo good. (You know that smell? That old paper smell? Yeah. That's why the e-books won't ever take off. You can't feel them, but more importantly, you can't smell them either!) The building was located on the campus of the local community college (one of my many alma maters), which also included an art museum (such as it was) and the planetarium. To little hick me, it was so, so, urban. (Ha!)

That summer we would climb into our station wagon (the only vehicle big enough to carry us all in the days of energy conservation and Pintos), Nana and I and Sharon and at least half of her brood, depending upon who was most bored or who had been grounded the longest. (The library trip was akin to a pardon by the governor.) We'd roll down all the windows and let our hair blow in the wind (we all had pixie cuts that summer, so who cared?), swirling the smells of sweat and heat and sun and gasoline about our heads, the vinyl seats slick with our sweat. We'd ride the half hour into the "city" and tumble out, racing each other to the air-conditioned hush of the building. We'd scatter to our favorite spots and spend an hour or two making our selections and meeting back at the checkout desk. The car on the way home would be quiet except for the turning of pages.

When did we stop doing that, I wonder. In those days, going to the "superstore" for groceries was an event. Going to the movies was something we did on vacation and holidays, to celebrate. It seems my entire summer was spent riding bicycles. Riding to someone's house to get them so we could ride to someone else's house and then ride back because it was time to go.

Popsicle juice making a dusty trail down my wirst.

Tan lines in the shape of flip flops.

Cold Coke in a green bottle.

The smell of the first few fat rain drops on sun baked pavement.

Lying on my back in the grass, looking straight up into the piercing blue of the sky.

The last summer of my innocence.