You’ve seen those pictures of beautiful blonds with flowing locks streaming behind them as they drive along the ocean in a convertible? They look so glamorous and like they’d be the life of any party. . .
I’ve never been a convertible kind of girl. I don’t have the hair for it. Nor have I ever been the carefree type. These undeniable truths came back to me the other day when we were driving to the doctor’s office.
My husband, who has a cough that frightens small children and dogs, decided we should take the 1965 Mercedes convertible to UCLA. Even though I had just spent a half hour trying to coax some volume into my hair, I got into the car without protest. It had been his dad’s car and he loves it.
How bad could it be?
Within six blocks I knew. First, since the seat belts are older than my kids, I couldn’t get mine to work. (Do you think the blonds with flowing hair care about seat belts? Nah!) There I was, without the protection of a roof, sitting next to a driver who doesn’t think following traffic rules is necessary. I started praying.
Then I felt the sun beating down on me. And I hadn’t put on sunscreen! I put my hand up, trying to block the rays. Which made it difficult to guard my hair.
“Isn’t this fun?” my husband asked between coughs.
“Really fun,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
On the way home, I figured out my seat belt, but the sun was even hotter. And the fumes from cars and motorcycles started me coughing.
“You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” my husband said.
“Oh, no, it’s great!” I tried creating a smile to match my words. I didn’t want to be a killjoy.
Today my husband had a better companion in his convertible. He and our granddaughter took the Mercedes to the mall to buy her school shoes.
They came back all smiles! That’s what grandchildren are for: to make us happy!