You may need a little background before you read this excerpt from my larger work of fiction (still very much in progress). I drew inspiration from my own bad hair cut, wrote about it, and continued the story line. It’s all purely fiction, but you can gain a little understanding if you go back and read about my bad hair cut. Then you’ll understand where this entry picks up.
Not My Life is the story of a pastor’s wife, Patty, who believes privacy is for fitting rooms and confessionals. She wants to share her story with the world, even if it’s sometimes at the expense of her dignity.
That’s as basic as the story line gets. Yes, I draw from personal experience. No, this is not my life. It’s fiction. Aka – imaginative, made-up, full of untruth. It’s a story, plain and simple
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March 27, 2012
I promised myself I was not going to leave the house today. I asked God if 
one day of sulking would be too much to ask, and He reminded me of Jonah. Jonah sulked after Ninevah repented, and I figure spiked bangs and chopped locks damaged my psyche nearly as much as being swallowed by a whale.
I cried for an hour yesterday afternoon. I couldn’t help myself. Frank still laughs every time he catches a glimpse of my hair. I’ve asked him to please stop, but he says it’s out of his control. It’s automatic, like a reflex. He sees my hair, thinks back to the now famous ‘Cut of 2012’ and falls into uncontrollable giggling fits.
If I could just take my head off and leave it home…how I wish!
I stood at the bathroom mirror for forty-minutes today trying to fix what’s left of my hair into a style presentable for Easter Sunday. Did I tell you I’m singing on Easter? A solo! After using half a bottle of mousse, I knew this haircut is God’s punishment for my vanity. As I stand before our congregation and sing He Arose, I will wish with all my heart that an empty tomb will open and suck me into oblivion. Oh vanity of vanities!
I never suspected things could get worse. I’m already suffering the trials of Job himself, if he were a woman. Since my hair is too atrocious for taming products, I resorted to using Jane’s miniature claw clips. When I finished wrangling my hair, I looked a little like Lady Liberty, only my spikes were pastel. An entire row of rainbow clips framed my face. If I were an Easter egg, I might be styling, but I am the minister’s wife! I am singing on Sunday. God (and maybe miracle grow) is the only one who can help me now.
So I turned to Him in prayer.
An Easter bonnet. I’m sure he spoke that thought right into my very heart. So I grabbed my windbreaker from the hall closet and slipped one of Frank’s Yankee’s caps over the line of rainbow clips in my hair. Swinging my bag over one shoulder, I headed out the door. To Macy’s I would go!
Walking through the door, I scanned the the brightly lit aisles filled with the pinks and greens of spring. God bless Macy’s. I didn’t see a familiar soul on the entire first floor, so I ventured in. From three aisles away, I spied the perfect hat, wide-brimmed and floppy. It was the color of not- too- summery butter-cream. As my eyes locked on my millinery savior, holy hands flew to the sky. Unfortunately I quit paying attention to those around me and crashed right into the back of Mrs. Merryman. Her generous skirt rose like a hot air balloon, and she landed on my left foot with a thump that rumbled the second floor. I looked down and noticed my shoes – lime-green, cheese-thin flip-flops, and that’s not the worst of it. My feet were cold early this morning, so I borrowed Frank’s wool hunting socks. Apparently in my haste to hide my hair, I forgot to take them off.
Our jumble of hands and skirts attracted an extremely large crowd of eyewitnesses. Frank would have been jealous. I had a larger audience than he does on a pot-luck Sunday, and you know how many people show up for food!
Mrs. Merryman forgives me, or so she claims. She was quite miffed sitting in her heap of pleated skirt and store bags. I can’t blame her. I barely forgive myself. She didn’t utter the words “I’m sorry” until I swallowed my last little bit of pride and took off the Yankees cap.
Actually, her hand flew to her mouth. It was hanging like she had loose hinges on her jaw, and she said, “Oh, my lands! Who did that to you?”
Before I could tell her, she sucked in a breath that seemed to deplete all oxygen from the air, and muttered in a barely audible whisper, “It was Helen. Wasn’t it? I’m so very sorry my dear.”
One single tear walked from my right eye to my chin. Then it fell on my water-proof windbreaker. Macy’s went silent. I swear I heard the tear-drop hit the floor.
Thankfully Mrs. Merryman can still walk. She said she’ll be in the third pew from the front on Sunday, waiting to see me on stage in my new hat. I’ll look like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Lady Gaga. I wonder if I’ll make headlines in the Happy Valley Herald? I only hope Frank will thank me for the publicity, otherwise, he’ll probably call Helen back to finish scalping me.
It’s So Not My Life,
Patty
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Now, I’d love for you to join me in Fiction Friday. If you’d like to share a little fiction today, please leave your link in the comments. This weekend I will take the time to read all the linked posts. I can’t wait!
All I ask from you is that you grab my nifty Fiction Friday button my sidebar and proudly display it your post. Also, please link back to this post. Thank you!
Hope you all enjoy your weekend.
P.S. I created a facebook page for The Domestic Fringe. I thought it might make staying in touch easier. You can click the “Like” button in the upper right corner of my sidebar and we’ll be friends forever. I promise to “Like” you back. 
