Wind in Hair
When I came in from being out tonight, the wind was in my hair. I've often wondered about that phrase (the wind in my hair) it seems that something like wind could not be contained, or trapped, in hair.
But it was tonight.
I could run my fingers through my hair, feel its coldness and still be in my friend Bre's Jeep with the windows rolled down, careening through the subtle night listening to instrumental movie soundtracks and feeling completely far away from Taylor.
It is good to escape sometimes.
Even if your escape only takes you as far away as Starbucks with a friend. Starbucks should market that: we are an escape.
I would highly recommend the new dark cherry mocha, although it's mother wouldn't recognize it the way I drank it. I can only vouch for the near perfection of a white chocolate, soy, decaf dark cherry mocha with no whip. Quite heavenly.
Bre and I went to Starbucks to study and talk. When I called her to talk about it, I asked if she would like to do homework in company with me and talk from time to time. She told me tonight that this is always what happens when you study with someone, but no one ever says that.
Welcome to my world.
Bre had to write a journalistic essay. She began writing it about me as I sat there reading for African Literature and wishing that I could pick up my for-fun fiction sitting on the table in front of me. As soon as I finish with this entry, I'm going to go and read a chapter of it. Homework is done for tonight.
It is odd to have someone write about you.
I feel a little like a patient who is also a doctor. I write about people all the time and do not find this strange. Usually, however, people do not write about me.
It's kind of fun, but scary. Perhaps she will discover something about me that I don't know. She is a literature major. What if she makes some sort of symbolic connection with my life?
This doesn't concern me much, because I like Bre who has three text messages on her list of things to do. I like the moments of calm and beauty that we had with one another tonight. It is rare that we are on our own, just talking. It is then that I remember most why I like her so much.
We rode back to campus with the wind in our hair, singing "Beauty and the Beast" in high, hysterically operatic voices.
I don't mind her writing about me. After all, I'm writing about her.