if this wig could talk, i'd have to get out the duct tape

I'm sitting on my couch brushing out my wigs, even though I doubt I'll be wearing any of them this weekend. You never know though, and they've been boxed up for a couple of years, so very much in need of some untangling.

This third one I start brushing out brings a smile to my face. She's been used the most, mostly at Halloween with my Little Red Riding Hood costume, the costume I had decided to retire this year, but am now tempted to throw it in my car just in case she wants to come out and play this weekend when I'm down in Seattle.

I smile as I brush through this matted wig, as I remember someone else wearing it. A fuzzy memory towards the end of a wild night in Bellingham a couple of years ago. I'm left speechless, or rather typeless, as I remember that night. And then I remember another night, the night of my moving-to-sedona party in 2005. The photos from that are in a folder titled "blackmail," appropriately so. For the sake of story-telling, it's sort of too bad that I'm so respectful of the privacy of others involved in those nights. But perhaps some stories, some experiences, are better off remaining private. Perhaps sometimes it really is best to "keep it to yourself." And that's why I don't blog more often. I hate censoring myself. So sometimes I'd rather just not share at all....


© 2009 Rebecca Clio Gould. All rights reserved.