It might be time to face the fact that I’m a hippie.

I was born in the 70’s, I’m partial to a bit of spinach and the thought of styling my hair gives me PTSD.

The tell-tale signs are there.

It’s hard work fitting into the hyper groomed, overachieving world that the twenty-first century is.

As gorgeous as women look in oversized earrings and puffy lips, I’ve felt like a fraud each time I’ve considered going large. I need to get halfway to sozzled to wear something that isn’t an earthy tone.

The term ‘hippie’ is such an all-encompassing description though.

I picture an irresponsible, stoned and hairy individual with too many children and not enough shoes.

I suspect I am a flavour of hippie, best described as:  

• Overly comfortable in my own company
• Reluctant to cut my hair for no sensible reason
• Driven to promote free living, but also following road rules
• Emotionally guided by music
• Prepared to protest, as long as there’s snacks involved
• Born to travel, with an acute lack of funding to do so
• Allergic to politicians and tax
• Fulfilled by real conversations
• Supportive of the medication sometimes required to get there
• Obsessed with movement
• Inspired by almost everyone

With my head in the air and my feet on the ground – on I go. Not quite a pixie, more of a flower child.

I wonder what other flavours of hippie are out there.