It’s a hair thing
my husband, iKen, has a miata. he loves his little car. he loves that it’s a convertible & he gets to tool around in it & make-believe he’s 25, or around that age, again. except for picking up chicks while driving/tooling around, it brings him back to his fabulous youth. he knows picking up chicks won’t go over well, but waving is fine.
he loves his car and his car loves him.
they’re a good team.
he also knows that i’m not a fan of convertibles.
it’s a hair thing.
yes, it is.
cross my heart, pinky swear.
anyone who knows me knows my hair is my tiara.
i wanted to go in my car, he wanted to go in his car-baby. so, we had a bit of a tiff… a loud tiff… he was going for a massage, and i wanted to meet up with, and have a drink with one of my favorite humans, Laura Wohlfert Badea. Laura & Florin own the spa in town and he — florin — heals my husband. truly… he is a healer.
but i digress, this isn’t about ken getting healed, it’s about my hair.
so, we get into this little tiff, and i tell him to go blow himself, and he tells me to blow myself… and you know, that never ends well, or goes anywhere. i got in the car, miserable me, and iKen was happy as a fucking clam. happy, content. the bended elbow resting on the rolled down window, and one hand on the wheel. i was the devil-doll. my short hair blowing every which way, and no, i didn’t wear a hat because… well… never mind… and by the time we got to milford, i looked like don king. and no, i did not have a stitch of make-up on.
i kissed ken, and told him in a whisper that he owed me big time, like paris or maybe post ranch, or johns pizza. he waved that off… and went to get his healing massage. my happy, content, sexy husband.
i walked into the bar (bar louis, MY FAVORITE bar at the Hotel Fauchere) and the first thing said to me:
wow, amy, your hair looks great. whatdya do?
there is no moral to this story.
actually, two glasses really helped.
and seeing Laura always, always fills me to the brim.