Back in 1990, when I was a young mother and got a perm (a great, fat, pyramidical perm), I knew even then that this would be an occasion for photo-album shame. Little did I know that, during my perm period, things would happen, such as the whoopsie doodle publication of my first novel, THE DEEP END OF THE OCEAN, that meant I would be recorded with that fuzzy pyramid on my head. Right now, I know that little tattoos, in celebration of turning 30 or 40 or 50, are not going to last — while the kind of tattoos that are a lifelong symbol of a raw and unexpected dawn after a twenty-hour night in some castaway place, will last forever. Vertical platform heels, that make even the agile walk like a wooden toy soldier, will not last, but ballet flats will. Tans won’t be back. Bubble mini skirts are headed down the wind tunnel of memory. And Axe for men will be replaced by something that doesn’t make clean smell like dirty papered over, the sooner the better. Do you know which current style is headed out forever?