Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision. On the one hand, I no longer worry about how other people see me. I never agonize over Frosted Rose versus Ripe Cherry lip gloss, the pastel pink of camouflage or the red slash of war paint. I don’t have to get up early to dry my hair. I don’t even have to have hair, if I don’t want to. Getting dressed is suddenly a joy—freed from the twin tyrannies of “flattering” and “age appropriate,” I deck myself out in dozens of scarves and bright saris, plunging evening gowns or black leather cat-suits. You can’t look like a crazy lady if you don’t look like anything at all.
