Evolution of A Woman

It all started with a bowl of hair bleach.

Actually, I’m not going back far enough. Allow me to lead with another sentence.

He is very pretty.

It commenced on Sunday. I awoke and attended church like the obedient girl my parents raised me to be. It is a practice I have not digressed from as an adult though there are Sundays when my enthusiasm for organized worship wans from the zeal most saints with my devotion in attendance possess. This Sabbath day happened to be one of those despondent Sundays.

The meeting launched and within the first 15 minutes, I located a newfound reason for interest in religion (in the very loosest sense.) Him.

I never noticed Him before. I was told of his presence for the past year. Could it be I have been so caught up in my own surroundings to have missed Him? Nevertheless, I noticed Him now and I couldn’t stop examining. He was so pretty.

He isn’t the type of guy I would ever go for and I feel certain in saying I am far from the kind of girl he would ever be with. Yet I feel fine. For the words which come to mind when staring at him have little to do with sex or raw attraction, rather beauty, like a sculpture or piece of art. Again I assert he was… pretty.

I utilized my experience to accomplish little more than personal indulgence. (Perhaps the antithesis of organized religion. The irony is NOT lost on me.) Worship ended and so did my intrigue with Mr. Pretty. I went home and prepared for the upcoming week.

This evening, once I had put in twenty solid minutes of apartment time after work, boredom got the best of me and I decided to ring a dear friend. I was quickly informed she was dyeing her sister’s hair and as I have always had an interest and AFFINITY for hair color, I immediately invited myself over to supervise the project, if only to witness the results.

By the time I arrived, the task had been completed and the hair (which looks fantastic) was in the middle of being blown out. As I chatted with my friend, I picked up the brush in the bowl of dye and began painting the substance onto my arms. Ten minutes and itchy bleached skin later, the laughter was flowing freely and the story of Mr. Pretty was shared.

I learned of his ironic residence in the exact complex of my friend. As girls, it took us two minutes to fabricate a story for why we needed to be at his door. We resolved to “borrow an egg.” My friend and I were disappointed to discover his roommate’s answer and upon further inspection quickly deemed the plan foiled. One egg and a painful conversation about a broken DVR later, we were on our way giggling whilst displaying our youthfulness despite our age.

Some things will always be the same. Where there is a boy, there will always be giggling girls.

We returned defeated temporarily. Then we heard of his potential attendance of a church activity scheduled for tonight. Our hope waxed strong once more and we climbed in the car if only to catch a 10 minute glimpse of Mr. Pretty.

15 minutes and 3 false alarms later, we for a second time deemed the plan foiled.

There seemed only one consolation. Laughter. So with a little help from a classic “doorbell ditch” to a random residence (okay, not so random… and my apologies for my moment of silliness if you’re reading this), we found ourselves tearing through bushes headed for the car.

As I sit here eating grapes and scrutinizing over my blonde arm hair (I’m pleased with the outcome but saddened to discover I missed a patch), I’m reminded of the lyrics to a Britney song (of all people) proclaiming, “I’m not a girl; not yet a women…”

The years have lapsed and I know exactly where I am categorized according to that song. I have long since been a woman. Yet every once in awhile, the impractical girl will reappear and vocabulary words like “crush” are used by our friends to defend our harebrained attempts to secure a peek at Mr. Pretty.

I’m ridiculous. Although, I’ve made my peace with it.