Watch Me Turn 30, by Holly C.
I'm a 29-year-old New Yorker who inherited this site from my pal, Holly P., to document the final year of my twenties. Right up until I turn the big 3-0 next January, I'll use this blog to indulge my inner-narcissist by voicing the good (I can date men anywhere from ages 21 to 50 without it being scandalous) the bad (I keep getting ma'amed) and the ugly (is it possible to get cellulite on your stomach?!). Here's to waving goodbye to my youth, accepting adulthood and remembering that every ending is really just a new beginning.
the photo for April 20, 2007
DAY 81  |  April 20, 2007
Since I haven’t had a haircut since Vietnam, I thought it would be a big relief to go to a stylist who spoke my language. I walked into this salon at the mall in Bondi Junction and prayed I wouldn’t walk out with a mullet. Luckily, this guy was skilled with scissors. Small talk, on the other hand, was not his forte.

As I sat down, he came right out with, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. How old are you?” I responded.

“Twenty-six. You don’t look twenty-nine. Are you married?”

“Um, no.”

“Why not?”

Geez, talk about getting personal. Taken off guard, I had no cool comeback. “I’ve been traveling for almost eleven months.”

“Well, do you have a boyfriend?”


“What happens if you meet somebody on the road?”

“I don’t know. Then I guess I meet somebody on the road.” For the love of God, buddy, I just came in for a haircut, not to dish about my love life.

“Australian men are direct. Maybe you should try one.”

I thought I was all about honesty, but this straight-forwardness was making me a bit uncomfortable. To distract him from the topic, I raised my brows in concern and gasped, “Oh my God. I think I’ve spotted a gray hair!”

“Well, you ARE almost thirty you know,” he chided.

I've changed my mind: I think I prefer the good old days when my stylist and I communicated using only hand gestures.

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