Is it a secret code? Is it some set of computer commands, you ask? It's neither of those, but it's message is so important that after I finish typing this I'm putting this piece of paper in our fireproof lockbox. Hmmm. I should have you all guess. Are you thinking? Ok, here's a hint...the code was written by my hairdresser, Karla. I made her write it down in front of me. Then I made her read it to me. When I asked about the safety of where she keeps her client cards, she made a copy for me. I love Karla.
Alright, here it is.
The secret code is the recipe for my hair color. No, I am not kidding.
You see, I have been feeling frumpy and schlumpy...counting good hair days these past few years on one hand. But yesterday the clouds parted as Karla mixed, stirred, and then slathered my head with her wondrous gunk.
I'm telling you when she turned that chair around, I felt like I was on some kind of makeover show.
Now I know this is all quite shallow. And truly, I am fairly low maintenance when it comes to my outer appearance. (Recall Alaska posts and no running water?) But heavens-to-Betsy my spirits soared when I caught a glimpse of myself in that mirror. And the horror of going back in a few months and having Karla say "hmmm, I can't remember what we did last time" was just too frightening.
So there you have it. The Colonial has his secret recipe and now I have mine. I think instead of locking it up, I might frame it instead.
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