It's windy enough to make a bird's nest out of my hair. It's getting too long. I've always been notoriously bad with my hair. My sister had to style it for prom. In college, my long hair was usually in a braid down my back. Now, at 58, it is gray and because of chemotherapy, no longer straight as a pin. No. It grew back curly. Still gray, but very curly. I was mesmorized. All those years of perms and curlers now unnecessary. I decided to grow it out and see what it looked like. It looked scary, is what it looked like. I looked like a deranged Shirley Temple with gray hair. Like a crazy old aunt in a Southern short story who lived in an attic and terrorized children. I had it cut short again. This time, it has not grown back curly, but wavy with unexplainable cowlicks. Still gray. Foolishly, I decided to try to grow it out again, hoping that I might look like Blythe Danner. Instead, I wake up every morning looking like Albert Einstein.
And the wind today reminds me that I need to go back to my short, neat cut. It is windy enough that when I go to open my car door, it flies open hard and fast, dragging me with it.
A child in Towl Park lets a kite fly. Both she and her mother fight to keep a hold of it as it drags them to the south like rag dolls. The child yells that, "This is not fun, mommy! The wind is mean!"
Yes, the wind is mean today. Just look at my hair. I look as though I have been through the air blower at a car wash. I feel all grimey from the dust flying up at me from the parking lot.
I do see a couple of Canadian snow geese out for a walk. The male, ever protective, stands guard while his mate nibbles on what looks to be several rice cakes on the ground. After she gets her fill, he eats what is left while she goes into the pond for a swim. After he finishes, he joins her and they parade around the pretty pond as if posing for pictures. Their silky heads shine in the sun light. Whenever a dog comes by on the path, they slip together close in the center of the pond, ignoring his barking. They cuddle up closely, canoodling and laughing softly at this exercise in futility.
When the coast is clear, they take a splashy bath together, flapping their powerful wings wildly as water flies. The female goose preens a little, shaking her white bottom for her mate. He responds by encircling his neck gently around hers. It is a love dance, but not a youthful one. These are full grown birds and probably long time mates. He knows her favorite color. She knows his favorite foods. They don't know that our world is in turmoil. All they know is that it is a pretty day and that they have each other. And, in the end, what more does anyone need?