Metamorphoses

In which The Author fails to recognise an old friend

I met a girl I haven’t seen for ages over Christmas. She had to tell me who she was, because her hair was a different colour and a different length, and her body shape had changed. In addition, her make-up style was so unlike the style I was used to that I simply didn’t recognise her.
When I met up with some male friends the following day, there was no such confusion. They looked pretty much the same as they had the last time we saw each other, several months before.
Why do women insist on metamorphosing into new forms at such regular intervals? I can’t understand it. Guys don’t do it – we’ll look the same for years on end, growing only thinner on top and thicker at the waist. Women seem to live their lives like the Doctor – regenerating into new bodies every so often.
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