For the last 17 years of my life, I have had the same curling iron. I don’t even remember how I got it. It just appeared. Nonetheless, it’s been around for a while. This morning, I found it close to death. The red light was on, but it was barely warm – not nearly hot enough for me to accidentally singe myself on and let out a loud, inappropriate word or two.
It’s untimely death got me reminiscing about our days together:
high school – proms and dances and dates with boys
graduations – high school and college and caps and gowns
my wedding day, dressed in a slip while my hair and makeup was done
another wedding day (not mine) where my daughter served as a flower girl – just three years old – prancing, impatiently, while we tried to curl her hair without burning her little ears
the morning I gave birth to that same little girl – my first-born – when I was convinced I wasn’t going to be all nasty-looking like all those other women when they were in labor (yes, the curls all fell and in the end, I was a sweaty, disgusting mess, just like the rest)
the days it sat, collecting dust, while I was a stay at home mom
job interviews, when I curled and recurled the hair closest to the front, trying desperately to make it lay right, so I’d look presentable
the day I met my now-husband, getting ready for our first date
attempting to curl my six-year-old son’s hair, after his non-stop begging (he was very excited)
It’s funny how much you begin to rely on things in your life – the background of the day-to-day minutia. I know it’s just a curling iron and easily replaceable, but it won’t be the same. It’s like a living history that’s followed me from teenage years to adulthood. It’s saying goodbye.
What things have you grown accustomed to that you mourned when they were gone?