Once upon a time in the mid-to late-nineties Bryan looked very much like Lorenzo Lamas. With locks of chestnut tresses tangled with seawater, although to his credit Bryan never did sport a leather vest. Back then I wore dark red lipstick, ribbon chokers, leotards, palazzo pants. I might have been the one rockin' the leather vest. We all have our crosses to bear, but my cross wasn’t ceremoniously cut off by an effeminate hairdresser in the summer of 1998. I do not have a tin box housing an heirloom pair of suede clogs, a reliquary of my lost youth. Bryan, however, has this:
An eight inch ponytail.
To be fair, it's not as if Bryan has kept his shorn locks safe in the back of his underwear drawer all these years. In fact, perhaps even creepier, my mom has had his ponytail. Bryan was going to throw it away back in 1998 but my mom stopped him. She thought it would make a powerful talisman against evil spirits. Against what evil, I shudder to think.
So the other day my mom and I were at her house and came across this hairy shank of yesteryear. And I knew then what I would give Bryan this Sunday.
My husband, the father of my child--I am giving Bryan back his youth. His ponytail, and a roll of very sticky Scotch tape.
Stay tuned, for on Monday surely I will have a tale to tell of unending gratitude, of kisses sweet and nights spent watching 90210 and braiding each other's hair.