Stop pulling my hair
It’s an odd thing, living in Idaho. No where else can I attend a hockey game and have a relative stranger tug my hair. I’m serious. Actually reach out and give my hair tug, like it’s not real.
“Are these extensions?” she asks.
Before I can give an audible reply, I somewhat automatically pull away, but it’s hard. She’s sitting right next to me. I do the next best thing; I attempt to show some grace by laughing it off.
“Yes, as you can probably tell by now,” I say, expecting her to stop pulling. Instead, she moves her hand a little deeper into my hair.
At this point, I’m having an out of body experience. I mean, over the years, I’ve been told I’m rather intimidating, on the phone or in person. Here, in a hockey rink, watching my husband play and with my two girls, I’m suddenly like the pregnant woman who has unwanted foreign fingers touching her belly.
But back to the hair. I realize that my look of “get your hands out of my hair,” is not doing the trick, and I physically take her hand, hold it still and lift up my hair to the roots.
“See? No glue ons.”
Here again, I expect this to suffice. Nope. I must explain the concept of glue ons to this gal, who has a profession that will not be named, but rest assure you, it took an undergrad and graduate degree to get her where she is today, thereby confirming that not all book smart people are street smart, or have class.
All this to say I’m still a bit unsettled by the whole experience, two days later. I like to say it’s a North Idaho thing, where people have no filter, and no sense of boundaries. At least that’s the way I justify these types of situations, which are becoming more normal, not less so (the last time this happened I had a woman at a checkout counter peer at my face, and specifically my eyelashes. Thanks mom and dad. You gave me great eyelashes).
Rog says this is our new normal. Blunt of question and freedom to feel and touch as one chooses. Come visit, if you’d like. Just make sure those extensions are glued in and on real tight.