One thing I’ve learned from my cats:  they don’t care what they look like.   They don’t stand in front of a mirror and pat down a stray hair or cover their faces with makeup to blot out features they don’t like.  No, what they look like is, well, what they look like.

Scooter has a face that makes people laugh.  He makes me smile every time I see him.  He has a Groucho-like moustache.  Scooter believes he’s is the greatest, most wonderful, most handsome creature in the world and the fact that people laugh at his face doesn’t bother him at all.  He is THE cat and rules this 1200-square-foot apartment, his world.

On the other hand, Maggie has a round little tummy and a fairly large backside.  She’s not fat.  She just carries her weight a little low.   George always said that she looked like a cookie jar when she sat.  She does, a cookie jar with lots of room for goodies on the bottom.   And she doesn’t care at all.  Does not care.  She believes me and purrs loudly when I tell her she’s the most beautiful female feline ever.

I got a haircut three weeks ago.  A bad haircut.  It looks great in the front but it’s very short in the back.   I have hair that’s both fine and straight as well as wirey.  The back of my head looks like a roof with very badly laid shingles or, perhaps, a thatched roof with all the straw escaping.  My hair sticks out all over and it’s too short for me to fix.  I’ve tried gels and mousse but, once they dry, the gelled hair doesn’t hold and sticks up and out even more.

For that reason, I’ve adopted the cat’s point of view.  I don’t care.  I can’t see the back of my head so I’m going to ignore the mess and  believe that I look really terrific.

Besides, hair will grow.   In a month or two, it will be long enough I can get a hot roller in there to tame it.

For the time being, I’m avoiding mirrors.