By the time you read this I will be 64. Happy Birthday to me!

Really, I'm so grateful to welcome another year of who knows what!

I'm thinking about my Mom and wondering what she was feeling getting

ready to deliver her third kid on January 9, 1960.

In the dead, dark, cold Rochester, NY weather.

Her second girl. Her third child.

Her girl that shared her curly hair.

Please notice in the picture we have the exact same curl on our foreheads.

We both have incessantly tried to bang and hide our high foreheads.

You'll never understand how nearly impossible that is with curly hair.

Today, I cut my bangs. I failed...again, they look hacked, unruly and angry.

I'm still incessantly trying to cover my Mt. Rushmore forehead.

My Mom used to anchor her bangs with that pink tape that didn't

pull your skin off after your hair had dried.

She taught me how to use it, but alas, my curl was stronger.

I love that we both had the same hair struggles.

My Mom died when she was 57 and I was 31. I hate that.

I'll always hate that.

I hate that she wasn't around when hairstyles changed.

She might've trashed the pink hair tape and grown her curly locks

into a long tousle of unruly curls.

I miss you Mom.

Thank you for all the birthday parties in the dead of winter,

two weeks after Christmas when everyone is partied out, broke and depressed.

Thank you for your undying faith in me.

I forgive you for making me audition for American Ballet Theatre,

but I'm grateful you had that much assurance that I was of that level.

I want you to know that the 33 birthdays I've had since you passed

have been ok. I learned to be ok being motherless. I've had to.

I hate it, but I know without you and your fierce love,

I wouldn't be the woman I am proud to be today,

fucked up bangs and all.