Saturday was my sister Annie’s birthday. Not just any birthday. The BIG birthday … as in 5-O big. Now I don’t really put much stock in birth years, always preferring to think of age as just another number. Lord knows I have NEVER acted my age, (and really what does that mean anyway?) Nope, I like to just sail along and hope I never break a hip in the process. So Saturday we gathered to celebrate that fabulous sister of mine name Ann.
Now for those of you that may be new to my blog world, let me just say that a birthday in my family does not just mean cake. Birthdays are C-E-L-E-B-R-A-T-I-O-N-S and must be treated as such. So we begin: Saturday morning the girls gathered for some female breakfast bonding at the Millcreek Cafe. We talked and laughed and ate and consumed enough coffee to keep those Columbian growers rich and happy. Realizing that we had monopolized our table far too long, we moved on to the nail salon where we promptly “pick ya culuz” before settling in for piglet pampering. Do I even need to spell out for you how fun it was to look down that row of chairs and see all my favorite women-folk dipping dogs together? Surely not. (ok, I need to insert a tiddle of a side note here … I go to this nail salon regularly…as in they know me, they know my kids, I know their kids etc etc). There we all were, sitting, soaking, laughing, sharing, having a fabulous time. Our sweet nail gals were all into the spirit of the day and seemed to be enjoying Annie’s day right along with us. The talk turns to age … I secretly share. The Vietnamese chatter begins … imagine rapid-fire speech being emitted from 10 women at once and you feel my pain. Suddenly, “How old yo motha? She no old than sistah. How old?” I whisper: ” 70. Doesn’t she look fantastic. No one would ever guess she is 70.” -insert more Vietnamese chatter – and then it happened… my dear, darling, sweet nail tech stops mid file, looks up at me and matter-of-factly states: “You look like oldest. They say you oldest.” “no, I’m number three”. Heads shaking another tech pops up, looks at me and declares, “You look old. it yo hai, you have old hai.” I know, I know, the old-lady hair is a problem. I declare my motto (you know the one: The higher the hair, the closer to God). “Oh noooooo, not God, old hai. You have old Hai!” Oh dear Lord Almighty, “why?” “Why?” I implore, ” is this head o’web my cross to bear? Would it have been too much to just give me luscious, silky, manageable locks that swing and sway ala the Brady girls? Really Lord, could you not have blessed me with say a third nipple? Perhaps a sixth digit on each foot? Those I could handle Lord. Why the hair?” Somewhat deflated (and suddenly feeling really old) the topic changes, I have survived yet another hair inspired conversation.
clockwise from top: Annie, Stacy, me, Casey Jayne
Well we eventually exited the salon wearing some mighty fine foam flip-flops to allow our girls to dry solidly, toodled on over to Macy’s and commenced to shop the afternoon away. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t deeply affected by the whole hair thing over at the nail salon. I was…and having about 6 extra pounds upon my person didn’t help either (oh, did I forget to mention scale betrayal to the tune of 120 pounds? ) Sucking it up, i put my game face on, headed for those racks and dared them to betray my wardrobe wishes. I’ll spare you the shopping details but you must know that bargains were to be had and I took full advantage right down to my shiny new red shoes. I only cried once in the dressing room before sucking it up and moving forth. Finally wearing down we each left with bags full of bargains and headed home. Want to know the first thing I did?
Headed straight for the bathroom to smoosh down my hive. A lost cause I tell ya. My cross to bear. Oh well. I guess my lot is to be the young-on-the inside, elderly-hair-on-the outside, third daughter that looks older than her mother.
So other than the whole hair thing Saturday was grandly fantabulous!