Pearls&Grit

My first horse was a sorrel gelding with four white socks, a big white star and an attitude that would have fit a much larger horse. His mane and tail were almost cream colored, but had stripes of deep chocolate, auburn red and bright copper that kept it from turning completely white. He was the horse that taught me to ride. He once bucked me off three times in one lesson. I got madder and madder, he got quicker and quicker, until finally I was able to outsmart him. At the end of that lesson, we both walked out of the arena with a sense of accomplishment. I was a better rider and he had helped me. That horse covered me in hair anytime I did anything with him. But I will never forget the smell of his hair, nor the texture. 

Then there was the time that my cousin and I got our first haircuts at an actual salon. An actual salon at that point in my life was SuperCuts when they had first started the Locks of Love program. We both had more than a foot of hair cut off and donated. Back then I didn’t know that they could style my hair or maybe it required a little extra money that my frugal mother didn’t feel like springing for…at any rate, when we went home to my Grammie’s house and our dads lined us up for a picture…

I will never forget the feeling I had when I saw that picture. I had felt wonderful and light and free that day we took that picture. But when I saw the picture and saw how I towered over my cousin, shoulders hunched, with hair frizzing out in an absolute perfect triangle…it was an uncomfortable physical admission that my awkward preteen years were starting in full force.

There was dog hair everywhere. She offered me a drink but I didn’t want to even touch a cup that came out of that kitchen. I asked for a water, hoping a bottle of water would be produced but instead she filled a glass up out of the tap. There was a hair floating in the cup. Gag. But this was an important person to keep on my side in the highly political and treacherous world of powerline. Her husband was one of the bigger bosses in the company and it was important to maintain civility. She was talking, loudly, flailing with her hands, moving the air and the tufts of black dog fur puffed up in little dervishes along the corners of the floor. I dug deep, deep into the very depths of my soul and smiled. If this very small part I could play meant my husband found success at work, I would drink twelve glasses of Dog Hair Water.