Nothing last forever and few things stay the same over time. Water streams over and smoothes rough edges of river stones, sand becomes a pearl. Charlie Sheen is back on the drink and the hookers.
As we age, body metamorphosis seem to happen overnight, often to ones surprise or chagrin. You awake to a couple new pounds, a deeper marionette line or less snap-back in the skin on the top side of hands (is there a companion word, the opposite of "palms?")
Noticed one particularly odd change as I got older. It wasn't when my breasts went teardrop, taking a turn both downward and up (like a seal pup nose) or the occasional full strand of gray instead of a few random pube-like sprouts. Instead my stubbornly stick straight hair went curly, the kind of wave I sported through much of high school and college courtesy of an Aveda natural botanical and seaweed perm; you couldn’t wash your hair for days after and it smelled of the sea and plankton. But a girlfriend who scored a swanky stylist job at the swanky downtown Boulder salon did them for $20 after hours or on Sundays and they were kinder to the scalp. I rocked the Tawny Kitaen for years before following follicle folly and embracing my naturally smooth locks, in long layers and with heavy bangs. My trademark.
So have the puppies.