You Know When You Can’t Find That One Hair?

If you’ve got hair, (and I’m not judging because, Sweetman… well, he doesn’t) then you will totally know the feeling I’m about to describe.

You’re going about your business and you feel a hair that has clearly sprung loose from your head. It’s somewhere right… over… there. No! Maybe farther down your back, right down… there. NO! Dadgumit! Where is that blasted hair?

You can feel it. It tickles the back of your arm every time you turn slightly left. Or bend down to get the stray cheerio off the floor.

Determined to find it, you start grabbing at the back of your shirt in quick grabby bursts, hoping that you’ll nab it.

And suddenly, you find yourself on an all-out assault on this errant hair.

But, then, you’ve had it! So, you remove your arms from the sleeves of your shirt and turn the thing around so that you can do a full-on search for this dratted hair.

AH! There you are… gotcha!

Except, your darling husband walks in to find you standing in the middle of the room, eyes all wild, with neither of your arms through the sleeve holes in your shirt, irritated as all get out, muttering about a hair.

He looks at you like he doesn’t know whether to snap a picture and Instagram it, or potentially have you committed.

So, you say, “You know when you can’t find that one hair?”

And he calmly says, “No.”

And you realize that you are directing your question to the (nearly) bald-headed love of your life.

This leads to a deep sigh.

From both of you.

Followed, thankfully, by laughter.

And that, my friends, is marriage.

Yes indeedy.

The Back-up Hairbrush

Sweetgirl sat still (SHE SAT STILL!) while I brushed her hair the other night.

She had come to me, moments before, clutching her beloved purple hairbrush. The one with the gigantic, princess-sized, colorful gems glued to the back. The one I bought her on a whim. No wrapping paper adorned it. She didn’t request it. It was one of those “Sweetgirl would love this!” purchases.

And, oh, how she did!

This sweet child of mine, so girly in her ways, so foreign to my own, adores this brush with every strand of her fine golden hair. Each time she asks me to “Brush, please, mama!” I stop mid-whatever and sink down to do it. Each brush stroke another fleeting moment spent with this cherished girl child that hardly ever holds still long enough to allow me this gift of time.

As she walked over to me, this particular night, the brush slipped out of her hand. I dove, volleyball style, to get my hand underneath and break the impact.

I’ve still got it, because I surely did save that brush from destruction.

Immediately, I thought, “I need to buy a back-up brush!”

And, why?

What if she drops it and breaks it and we can’t fix it and she’s inconsolable.

Yeah. That.

I resolved to head back to the store where I bought it as soon as possible and pick up another one. The next morning, I had a quick hour of freedom and made a break for it!

But, a funny thing happened on the way to the store.

God got a hold of my human capacity for worst-case scenario planning. He whispered into the midst of it, “There is no plan for death. Save, mine.”

And I heard it.

But, I didn’t understand it. Not really.

So, I kept driving.

Broken_Hairbrushes_Missindeedy

Pulling into the parking space in front of the store, I felt this check in my heart. A nudge to just sit still, like my Sweetgirl did, and soak in some valuable moments of listening.

You already know where this is going, don’t you?

“You can’t save her from heartbreak. I couldn’t save my Son from the very same.”

I was listening. God’s Holiest whisper finally penetrated my human understanding. “I gave you this little one not so that you could save her, but so that I could. Show her that I can save her. Show her that broken hairbrushes will not break her.

Oh, y’all. I’m crying as I’m typing because… I needed to hear that so very badly.

Do you, too?

I want to take each circumstance in her life and Sweetboy’s life and control it and maneuver it and make it right and straight and copacetic and pain-free.

But, I can’t, can I.

And, that’s not even my job.

I’ve been trying to do Someone else’s job.

Clarity can be startling. It surely was, for me, in that moment.

I may have put the car in park, but it was my mind that God needed to pull over. I’m so thankful that He did.

I’m never more aware of my continual need for His grace than when He’s whispering a lesson into my heart that He’s only had to teach me eleventy times over.

Indeed.

I didn’t end up going in to buy the back-up hairbrush.

She doesn’t need it.

I don’t need it.

Gemstones may crack. We may crack.

But, He’ll put us back together in exactly the way only He can.

I’ll just keep showing her.

And He’ll keep showing me.

Best Friends Forever

English: A variety of tweezers, including poin...

My tweezers and I? We are best friends.  Best. Friends.

I wish I were kidding about this statement.

Alas, it is true.

It’s kind of a hairy story.

You knew I was going there, right?

Apparently, God saw fit to endow me lots of opportunities to give my tweezers a workout.  I have become very skilled at using those little suckers.  Even in the car.  Not while driving, of course. Although, I wonder if I could put that on a resume?

  • Adept at manipulating miniscule tools for emergency hair removal situations under high velocities

That sounds so official-like, doesn’t it?

Anyhoo… one of my greatest fears is being stuck in a place that doesn’t have either a 10x mirror, a 5x mirror, or… a mirror.

No worries, I don’t love myself that much.  I do, however, love knowing whether I’ve got a plucker that needs to go before going out into public. (Sidebar: friends don’t let friends go out in public with a Granny length chin hair poking out. Can I get an Amen? I mean, when we’re all 96 and start mistaking our toothbrush for our hairbrush, we can let that slide.  Until then…)

Truth be told, nothing strikes terror in my heart quicker than being in front of a mirror, while already in public, and discovering a surprise hair. Or 3.  MERCY! My heart gets to palpitating and I get the sweats.

Add being caught in that situation without my best friend?  My mouth just went dry…

It’s happened often enough, though, that I’ve developed an action plan. I now stow my best friend in every possible location I can think of. Purse? Check. Car? Check. Random kitchen drawer? Check. Upstairs, downstairs, and basement? Check, check, and… you just never know.

However, I also have a group of 4 flesh-and-blood best friends who are spread over these United States. We’ve made a pact that if I ever become incapacitated for some reason, they will take turns coming to my bedside, on a rotating basis. To pluck.

Yes, being best friends with me is just. that. exciting.

Now you know the true definition of TMI, folks.  I can’t even apologize, you see, because I’m all about The Sharing.

And since the likelihood of more unsightly hairs cropping up seems to increase with my advanced maternal age, I do believe my tweezers and I?  We really will be best friends forever.

So, to recap – I have hairs to spare.  My best friends deserve a medal. And, If you ever come to visit and reach into a drawer for a spoon, but instead pull out a pair of tweezers, you’ll understand why.

Just hand em’ over and we’ll be sure to be B.F.F’s in no time.

Yes indeedy.

Funny Ideas – Part Huh?

We made it through our Church’s VBS week.  We came, we saw, we conquered.  Then, we crashed. Here are some of the things that happened this week that made me and/or Sweetman say, “What the huh?”.

I attempted, on Crazy Hair Day, to copy a hair style that I saw on a you-tube video.  In it, the girl placed a water bottle on top of her head, flipped her head upside down, gathered all of said hair around the water bottle and secured it with a ponytail holder.  Still on board, here?  I realized quickly that my hair wasn’t long enough for that.  But I, in my desperation craftiness, remembered that I did indeed have exactly 2 of those cheap plastic two-part wine glasses left over from my 40th birthday party last year.  Yes, friends, I am klassy like that. AND, I can be crafty like that!  This is what I came up with instead:

Gotta few extra plastic party wineglasses laying around?

Aren’t I purty?  Seriously.  Aren’t I?  The mask really completes the look, don’t you think?  No?  Well, just be thankful that I didn’t poke somebody’s eye out with those things!  And not for nothin’, but getting into and out of the car with those things in my hair wasn’t pretty either.

In other parts of the house – I’ve mentioned before that Sweetboy has some funny ideas.  I’m becoming concerned that he has identity issues.  Please see exhibit A below.  And you may or may not remember – the child has blond hair.  Also, he is not a pig. Nor is he a pig with a mole. His artistic sensibilities are baffling:

I’m fairly certain that jet black hair dye is in my child’s future

And lastly, Sweetgirl graciously offered to “help” me make waffles this morning.  Now, I am no whiz in the kitchen.  Nay, I barely “kitchen” at all; but I am often in that derned room of the house making waffles on the weekends.  This?  This was Sweetgirl’s opening salvo as to how she could help me:

Apparently, I neglected to teach her that we always start with CLEAN kitchen items…

And there you have it.