In July I was at Endicott College for the wonder-filled International Women Writers Guild Conference.  After waiting  two years due to the virus, I imagined a peaceful time walking along the beach there.  Instead,  overwrought by the heat and humidity I got in my car  and sought out a hairdresser at a Beverly salon. One more layer of my hair was removed but not before the room spun around from bending backward at the sink. The lady seemed to know all about the dizzies and brought me a cup of water.  Moving into an empty dorm room made me realize I am not a kid anymore as I lay on…