I’m in Starbucks with Nell the barista, who looks like a Clydesdale horse with her new hairdo.
I half expect her to whinny and stamp her foot while making my mocha latte.
What possesses someone to do something so radical to themselves? I can’t change my nail polish, let alone dye my hair the shade of snow shaving the sides clear off.
Is she just bored with life I wonder? One could certainly understand if she were.
She’s 18 if she’s a day, after all.
I’m trying not to stare, as strands of silver poke through her cap bobbing and weaving like rap singers. She’s so sweet Nell, despite my curiosity, I’m not asking, if she’s happy with her new do.
“You changed your hair,” I say instead, smiling at her pixie face that aways reminds me of a caffeinated calf.
She doesn’t answer, but smiles back and then I know, she loves her hair.
I guess that’s what’s important. Not that she looks as if she could ride in a parade pulling a carriage while a band plays.
Made me go upstairs and look at my own mop thinking, well, I think I too will do something wild, as I throw on a navy headband making me an inch and a half taller.
Hey, it’s a start.