One of my best friends has curly blonde hair. Not just curly - sheep’s wool curly. It floats around her head like a crazy, happy cloud. If anyone asks me to describe her, it is always the hair first: “Well, she’s got really curly hair, she’s a great dancer, can sing and she’s a Virgo, so, you know what I’m saying…” but always the hair first.
Recently she turned up at my door and she’d had her curls straightened. Once the shock had subsided and I’d collected my jaw from the doorstep, I had to question: Who is this woman? Do I know her at all? Will she still keep my secrets? Do I have to keep hers? Do curries remain her favourite food? Will she want to continue our book club going forward?
She looked so… straight-haired. I do not get it. I told her to stop it as I tentatively tapped her hair with a shaky finger and inquired how long before it would spring back to corkscrews. “I”ll see you in a week, when you’ve seen sense and are back to looking like my friend again,” I said. It is just not right. I need her curly when she’s encouraging my writing and gives me advice on life and won’t let me get a word in otherwise I may as well talk to the seagulls on the beach; who aren’t the slightest bit interested.
So, listen up my dear friend - I’m straight and you’re curly and that’s written in the stars. And, if you straighten those curls again, I’ll have a perm!