Fleeting Beef . . . Or Is It Chicken?
A very dear friend from childhood came to visit last week. We had not seen each other in several years, although we kept in touch via email and social networks. When she called to say she would be in town, I looked forward to a delightful time reminiscing about old friends, teachers - oh, and old boyfriends we stole from one another. When we met at the restaurant, I almost didn't recognize her. Her once-cinnamon colored tresses were every color of blond imaginable. And her deep brown eyes had become a strange color of green. "How do you like my new look?" she beamed. "Um, wonderful . . . um, beautiful . . . um, why?" I couldn't think of anything else to say. "Oh, you know." Oh, I do? I have the same mousey blond hair I was born with. "We're getting to that age, you know. Where the grays are popping out. Anyway, I always wanted to find out if blonds really did have more fun."