My Hair’s a Mess

So about that grocery store parking lot where a man ushered me so kindly to my car the other day: the place used to have a policy where you got escorted out whether you liked it or not.

God it was awful.

You piled all your purchases up onto the belt, swiped your card or forked over your cash and boom! The person who bagged it all suddenly took hold of your carriage and wheeled it the 100 yards out to your car, during which time a painful silence ensued since nine times out of ten you didn’t share a common language.

One day at this store it was the store manager who ushered me out, giving me the chance to ask him about the policy.

“So how’s this new escorting-folks-out thing going over with the customers”? I wondered. I knew it was a new policy because this was a brand-new store.

“Well,’ he said “the women aren’t too crazy about it.”

“No kidding” I said. “Why is that now?”

“They feel bad because they think their cars are messy and they don’t want anyone seeing them.”

This made me so sad. It reminded me of the girl I used to know who said she couldn’t be intimate with her husband if she thought her hair didn’t look just right.

Our cars aren’t right, our hair isn’t right: when will we learn to accept ourselves enough to let the world see us as we are?

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