When I focus on how I changed history, altering someone’s life, I cannot help but think that drawing attention to such a thing is just an exercise in ego massage. Naturally, with the religious guilt I still cart around, I hung my head.
Twenty seconds later, another feeling burst to flower.
“What to heck is wrong with that?”
I like it. However, to deal with a lingering thread of confusion, I can participate only by sharing the spotlight.
Is it wrong to admit that I have helped a friend through two decades of L’Oreal? Talk about change. Oh my gawd! When it worked, it was the best of times. When it didn’t, it was the very worst. (Yes. I dared add that useless adverb so you, dear reader, would dwell on it a few seconds longer, conjuring up images of depth and despair.)
When we’re drowning in the latter, the solution usually needed another trip to the store and two extra colourings–all of which culminated in a fried scalp and a friend I couldn’t recognize in a crowd for weeks.
I don’t know. That sounds dubious to me.
How about that my friend has held my hand through one bad hair year that shot for a trifecta, to fixations on a purple-pink checkerboard, raven black brush cut–a phase when only a bonafide barber would do–all the way to a beehive coronation by an over excited hairdresser.
No matter, we birthed, molded, shaped, and scraped, burnt, teased, and sometimes eased, hair care for each other. Cried and lied (about how much we love it). Shared and laired (holed up while things got better). First, cursed and always coerced, till combs do part us forever.