Control is a recurring theme in my life of late.
Oh who am I kidding. I've always had control issues.
I popped by my friend Tina's house last week to pick up some groceries.
What's that? You don't go shopping at your friend's house? Well I wasn't actually shopping. She had shopped for me. At Costco. A dish of chicken enchiladas for dinner and two large cans of coffee. Kirkland coffee is a bargain and it's quite good. I had also run out of coffee filters, so she supplied me with a short stack from her pantry. Yes she spoils me, my friend Tina.
As I was leaving, she asked if I had considered wearing a headband or using clips in my hair.
Both of my hands flew to my head.
My crazy long hair!
Her first mention of it!
Was this a positive mention or one into which I should read a more sinister truth?
"Tell me the truth, Tina. Please. Does it look horrible?"
She paused as if considering a tactful response. "No, no. Not horrible. Just kind of fly-away."
I, of course, heard "wild" "messy" "crazy" "out of control" instead of fly-away. But then again, how else can "fly-away" be interpreted?
Our phone rang the next day. It was Tina, saying she had something for Wendy and me to play with. "Oh?" I queried, knowing with her that could mean just about anything. (If you know her, you know what I mean. It's all good.)
"Remember we talked about your hair? I picked up some things for you to experiment with."
Tina, the ultimate caregiver.
She's a mother hen with an expansive brood.
I've never really had enough hair to use clips or headbands or accessories of any sort. I'm oddly excited by the prospect. Is that my inner girly-girl peeking out?