Sense of a Woman

Women are strange creatures. I know, I know, I don’t get any brownie points for this non-innovative discovery of mine. In my good moments, I can bash men with the best of them, but sometimes in my heart of hearts, I cannot but feel something akin to empathy with all the men who have to deal with women in different spheres of their daily lives.

I was with a group of girl friends this Saturday evening when one of us commented on another’s hair. You know the way us girls gush: “your hair is soooo nice; is it yours? (like duh!); where did you get it done?” To which the proud owner of the hair gave us entirely Too Much Information (TMI). The “hair” could be hers or not- It is all a matter of interpretation; it was on her head in any case. Her coiffure was that properly (read: expensively) done such that it would not have been obtuse of anyone who concluded that it was really her God-given hair. To her (and most other females), the highest compliment we could pay was that her ‘weave’ was done so well that it looked like her own hair.

On the flip side of that scenario is another young woman this time around also with nicely done hair, but “hers” rather than a weave. The buzz this time around was “oh my God! Is that your hair? It looks so much like a weave”! Now that also, was a compliment.

So here it is: when you have your natural hair on, you want that it looks like a ‘weave’; and when you have a ‘weave’ you want it so that it looks like natural hair!!!

Women! Go figure.

Ever Changing Times

I am not quite certain if I am to be considered too old to read, let alone enjoy the Harry Potter novels. Tell me, is a full grown woman even allowed to know of Harry Potter?

If you have read any one of the series, you might recall the pensieve. The pensieve is a receptacle into which are stored the memories of Professor Dumbledore, from which the memories could be retrieved almost-at-will. I dare say that unless you are a member of the Air Force, and I do not mean the Royal Air Force, such a device is probably out of your altitude.

I was rummaging through an old wardrobe of mine- an archive of sorts if you will. It contains old love letters, cards, and diaries of a time when the extent of my worries was whether my body would ever, please God, catch up with my burgeoning breasts. Incidentally, it did… eventually! Oh, and pictures, pictures, and more pictures!!! From the moment I found out that I was photogenic, I just could not resist taking pictures- as my collection would testify.

Anyway, these pictures (along with my other prized possessions in my archives), they are my pensieve. Each one has its own story- stories told by the backdrops, the smiles (or faltering smiles, depending …), the clothes, the postures, the hairstyles. There has been dependence, innocence, the first stirrings of love, uncertainty, confidence, friendship, weariness … the list goes on and on. In parts, I want to cry, laugh out loud, smile a knowing smile, scream, sigh… My heart would be light and/or heavy depending on the picture. Sometimes a wish that one or two things could have turned out differently- for me and for those I love; but mostly, gratitude for the way things have turned out and are turning out. Memories of more carefree times.

As yet, I really don’t know how to classify ‘now’ in my life. Perhaps some day, they will be carefree times. I don’t know whether to hope they will be, would it mean that ‘then’ will not be carefree times? Does it even matter?

All I know is this: I miss people. I miss times. I miss me.