Covet

I saw her again today at the bus stop. We commiserated about the face shearing cold. Her voice has a Spanish lilt. I sat behind her on the bus and stared so hard I got dizzy. She is the woman with

THE HAIR I COVET.

It's a kinky, curly mane, like mine, with a few different textures. She has a few blond highlights among deeper honey tones. She wears it all one length and it reaches the bottom of her shoulder blades. She never wears a hat. It's long enough that the weight of it elongates the kinks but there are shorter, curlier bits around her face. It has life. It lifts. It moves. It is a crowning glory.

I don't covet the color. Been there, bleached that. I want the length, the weight, the feel of it brushing my back and shoulders. I want the "mane-y-ness" of it. Derek, my rock-n-roll hair dude has similar hair that he wears in a plaited rope down his back. When released, it crackles with life. Boing. I want the boing.

It's like a diet, ain't it, growing out your hair? Fits and starts. Those horrible "Krusty the Clown" periods. The lure of gorgeous short cuts. The Freedom of the Bald--how I loved being closely cropped. I'm currently struggling with wicked hat head--the longer curly hair needs to be watered-down each morning, a miniscule bit of product applied, and then the battle between keeping the ears and head warm and the hair style intact begins. The headband and the right wind produce an instant mohawk. A full hat, a kind of Lucy Ricardo roll, like a shubbery around the head.

I can't actually believe I have had the patience, or perhaps it's just bone idleness, to let it grow so that I can have a little afro-tail when necessary and it does seem like a bit of a pipe dream to have the mane I covet. Maybe I'll tie it in with my new food plan--become a Samson(ia), losing weight, gaining strength, growing healthy hair, knocking down temple columns. Grrrr.

(Then botox, a few bits and pieces lifted, some foot scraping and I'll be good as new.)

Here's to our lovely, vain dreams.