“Sister missionaries!” I exclaimed. “I want to go say hi.”
My husband put his hand on my arm. “Wait,” he said. “What are you planning to say?”
I paused and looked at him. “Um. Hi,” I shrugged.
“And when they ask if you’re a member?”
I brushed my fingertips against my recently buzzed head. Cutting off my long hair had been a move toward simplifying my life, and I loved it—but now I realized it also made me officially look not like a Mormon. Which was fine, because I wasn’t, but . . . I was still me. And I still remembered what it was like to be a sister missionary.
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