The face in the mirror tonight is an older man’s face. Not old, but rapidly approaching middle age. Lines on my forehead showed up a few months ago, and I’m at about 50/50 for grey hair vs brown, now. Also while thinking about all this, I cut myself shaving, because that’s something I’m still relatively new at. I was never a young man, I skipped straight over that stage and into this.

When I was a young woman, if that’s what we’re going to call it, I mostly paid attention to the lessons of older men. There were some awkward attempts at learning about make-up and clothes, at feminine things, but I approached them with confusion and uncertainty. What I focused on and learned swiftly were which hand to shake with and why, and how to talk confidently about cars and other habits that I deemed manly, or at least knowledge a gentleman should have. I could not have explained why. By high school I carried a pocket watch and a handkerchief, because one should. Once I graduated, a pocket knife was added to the collection. I was an old man, when I was a girl.