Don't brush your hair, don't shave your chin, don't attempt to hide the hag that lives in the house on chicken legs in your brain.
Be ugly. Revel. Show your sharp, yellowed teeth, strike fear into the hearts of pale knights and paler maidens.
Cackle. Cackle like the sound of ice splitting up the length of the lake, to open to black deathly waters underneath.
If today you're the crone on the hill, be the crone on the hill.
She is wise. She is old, she is ugly and unafraid of warts or death or being alone. She is your secret: the bent, awful lady who knows how to poison apples.
Be violent. She is the aging maenad, hair ratted into dreadlocks that smell of old sex and fennel.
She has given her cunt up to the world and it ate the world whole and has all the magic in it.
Be her. Be Baba Yaga, today.