In grade school we went to the Saturday afternoon movie matinees for the same reason a subscriber goes to a season’s performances of the orchestra: That’s just what we did.  While the program was not a matter of indifference, we’d go almost without regard to what was on the bill.  In my small town we had a choice of two theaters — “movies” we called them.


At least one of these theaters, as I remember, sometimes played a different movie for the Saturday matinee than for Saturday evening: a temporal mini-multiplex that anticipated the spatial multiplex we have today.

The recent restoration of an art deco theater in my hometown reminded me of my well-spent hours in the dark and startled me into an awareness of classic movie-house architecture. The ticket booth is in the center of the… More…

I’m part of the grow-your-own movement. Hair, that is. You’ll find no extensions in my waist-length mane, not that you’d think about it if you saw me on the street. Women my age can’t wear their hair down loose without being thought eccentric, perhaps because long, flowing hair is associated with sensuality. Unfettered sensuality in an older woman? Indecorous at best. So I wear my hair piled, twisted, and clipped-up to seem respectable.


That’s a choice. I could braid my hair and circle my head in the style of my mother and grandmother. Or, for that matter, I could be Princess Leia Organa for a day.

Hairstyle is as much costume as grooming.

The first time I wore my hair in a single braid over one shoulder, I did so on a lark. I thought I was being… More…