A few weeks ago on the phone with a friend, I learned that Joss Whedon was writing a virtual eighth season of his television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in comic book form. This is NOT a review of the comics, though I will say I’ve now read the first two (sadly, my copy of the first issue was from the second printing, not the first) and had forgotten how frustrating it is to be gripped by a story, and have to wait a month for the next part.

In any case, I haven’t read any kind of comic book, save for a beautiful Beauty and the Beast graphic novel, since I was ten or so, and read reprinted first-year Superman comics (and Supergirl) comics that I read in one sitting, on a hot and sunny summer afternoon. I remember sitting on my bed, with a glass of iced tea next to me, and my white poodle sitting next to me, my hair twisted into a single tight braid.

My hair was in braids a lot when I was nine and ten. Usually one, sometimes two. I have very fine hair that tangles far too easily, and I have a lot of it. Even now I braid it at night, or at least twist it into a bun on the top of my head, so that I don’t wake up with a matted rat’s nest of hair. Back then, though, I had a pass to the community pool, so there were weeks when my hair was braided once, and then I’d be swimming every day, showering every night, and only unravelling it for a thorough washing every three or four days. When you’re ten you can get away with that.

The Buffy comics brought all that back. And even though I read them on a cold and snowy day in April, and not in the heat of summer, there’s a part of me that was ten years old today. Again.