Christmas is coming as certainly as I hear Muzak sleigh bells and see red Salvation Army buckets near the double doors at the local grocery store.
Snow sifts into woods and lake country nudging our meager sun-soaked memories into hibernation. Days shrink as we slink toward a date when this gift of one life swaddled miraculously appeared with heavenly hosts, wise men and shepherd fanfare. The Christ Child, not a present packaged for commercial appeal -- one which, when followed beyond the manger, renders its recipient grateful beyond measure, a reborn being freshly aware and purposeful.
If I already have what I couldn't procure on my own, yet now embrace what I surely need: a Creator, a Savior, a life redeemed. Can't I brazenly ask for what I want?
While the Christmas goose fattens, what I truly want for Christmas is a full, thick head of luxuriant hair. Forget the front teeth. Mine are fine. I want plump hair. I want plump where it counts, not in the mid-section, but on top -- a maraschino cherry plopped on the roof of this middle-aged sundae.
I want cascading tresses -- waterfall hair -- the kind splashed on the cover of women's magazines. Who cares what color! Though something earth-toned would be nice.
I want hair that makes people wonder where my scalp went, even when I didn't brush my teeth with Pepsodent. When I run into old friends, I want to hear, "Why, I hardly recognize you through all that hair." I want to peer in the mirror, squint through strands and more layers to find myself.
I know, I've probably flipped my wig. Psst ... I've tried them. They are so detached (maybe the reason they are called rugs, divots and doormats -- great for Parliamentarians, Scrooge and one-act plays) and detachable. I remember Mother's purloined frosted flip yanked from my head as I danced the frug. I chased my brother a few blocks past the parking lot to get my hair back. I do own a purple bob, great for Vikings games, yet it ends up on the bathroom stall door hook between quarters. It's a hot house for heads. Too bad I'm not a tomato.
I've quit depending on brilliant, balding, or thin-haired scientists to root for my hair problem. They don't seem to care about hair. I can't transplant hair from here to there. I just don't have enough growth to garden.
So give me a break all you hirsute, happy Christmas shoppers. As you eyeball the Christmas Barbies, tell me, are any of them suffering from fine, flimsy hair syndrome? Any bald Barbies up for grabs? I didn't think so.
While those visions of sugar plums curl around in my head, I won't begrudge Jesus his gold, frankincense, and myrrh -- babies are supposed to be bald. I'll just hum my own version of The Twelve Days of Christmas: ...three French hens, two turtle doves and a new head of hair for this gal!
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