I found myself a little swept away the other day. It was Ladies Night at one of my favorite places, and there were all kinds of girly things: Paraffin waxes, cake balls, and hair feathers.
I’ve seen tons of kids at the elementary school rock the feathers, with a few choice (edgy cool) friends who wear it well, but I never seriously considered doing it myself.
What with the living in the suburbs and the almost-43 thing.
But I got a little bananas with the thinking I could be funky and what the heck! It was free. And what am I, dead? I can wear a feather, dammit. In my hair. Like the ten-year-olds do.
So after a bit of selection (blue? yellow? red?), I went with a tiger-stripe motif I think you’d all find charming.
At least I thought so. I mean, last night it sounded really really…I don’t know. Urban? Not dead-yet? I-can-still-rock-it?
I wasn’t sure where to put the feather, and so the woman applying it spent some time figuring location. At the side? Near the part? In the back?
“No.” She decided. “I think you can take a front feather. You seem…um…”
But she didn’t finish the sentence, choosing instead to apply the feather smack dab above my ear.
Maybe that meant I was exceptionally…hip? And could pull off an ear feather?
BUT WHY DIDN’T SHE FINISH THE SENTENCE?
In addition, there was a cowlick or some such thing that prevented normalcy and caused the tiger feather to protrude violently into my face and waft up and down in time with every nostril breath exhalation.
So the dorky factor was HUGE.
The tiger feather applier assured me that the feather would calm down after a day or two, but she could flat iron it for me if sucking the feather into my mouth every time I breathed turned out to a problem.
Not being able to take in oxygen eventually became an issue and so I asked the tiger be-featherer to flat iron my new hair accessory. That stuck straight into my face at a 90-degree angle. Only problem was, there were no available electrical outlets, so for the next 45 minutes, I ran around Ladies Night with a flat iron, a protruberant tiger feather, and a regretful attitude.
Finally, finally, my friend (who had a cutefully applied feather that wasn’t encrusted with nasal juices) and I found an outlet and proceeded to flat iron the sheer crap out of my tiger feather.
I finally mustered the tiger courage to approach the nice feather lady again and tell her to please re-apply the feather somewhere 10 miles south of my cowlick.
And there it rests today.