Maybe Coolness Skips a Generation.

Here’s another chapter in the “my mom is cooler than I am” book.

Last weekend, we went to see a production of the musical Hair.

I like the show well enough and always leave the theater singing the songs, but it’s my mother’s favorite musical.

The performance was well done, a pleasant surprise after the last time we saw a production of Hair which was truly dreadful. As we drove home, we talked about the actors (she liked the man who played Berger, I didn’t), the set (I thought the projections added to the show, Mom was ambivalent about them) and which songs we preferred.

The conversation then turned to the sixties in general.

Mom told me that she wished she hadn’t been so conventional with her life. That instead of marrying right out of high school, she wished she had taken to the road and become a hippie.

I asked what about that lifestyle appealed to her.

She said, “Everything. The freedom, the music, the drugs, the protests, the sex. I would have loved to have been at Woodstock.”

Then she turned the question back on me. “Don’t you wish you had been a part of all that?”

I wrinkled my nose. “No way.”

“Why?”

“It was too messy.”

My mother burst out laughing and said, “That’s my girl.”

Yep, that’s her girl. A slightly OCD, neatnik who doesn’t like mud, nudity, a lack of real bathrooms or the music too loud. The daughter of a wanna-be hippie.

I obviously didn’t inherit my mother’s cool gene.

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