March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb. It happens every year. The wind is blowing 40 miles an hour outside. It’s west Texas windy today and even the birds aren’t flying. They’re all in their swaying nests thinking “Da’yam! Grab the babies! I need to pee and fly and sing...what the HELL?!”

For me it’s not that ‘the answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’ It’s my HAIR! I’ve finally learned how to use ‘product’ in my hair then this. My hair is so straight and fine that when left to its own devices it lays flat on my head like a wet silk handkerchief. That might be okay if my head weren’t already misshapen with cowlicks where I don’t want them and a set of bangs that I’m growing out that now cover my eyes like beaded curtains in a French whore house.

But our BFF Sweet Pea who just happens to be the daughter of a licensed beautician taught me how to plaster the roots of my dry hair with a gooey sticky white substance in a jar...and then spray the shit out of it after I’ve used my curling iron. It looks pretty damn good when I do that...until the wind blows. I think I’ve created a hair helmet that is impenetrable but with winds at 40 mph there are strays that get loose straighten out and look like I’ve stuck bird feathers willy nilly to my scalp. It’s a dead giveaway that my hair doesn’t really look so perfect on any other given day. It’s humiliating and there’s nothing I can do but try to tuck those patches back into the hair helmet.

I know I’m not alone here. You people with naturally curly hair can just kiss my ass because this is not a worry for you. Granted your hair blows but in nice wavy sections that then fall right back in place between gusts. I curse the day you were born (SalGal!).

So wind wind go away...come again some other day. Can’t I have one friggin season of peace? Summer will only bring humidity that births the wet silk handkerchief syndrome again. But here’s the thing. I can’t cut my hair off because then people call me Tom or Dick or Harry. Crap!

KK

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BLOWIN’ IN THE WIND

Anybody who grew up in west Texas has a healthy respect for the wind…and a good case of Post Tramatic Stress Syndrome. Just mention that it’s windy outside and it will dredge up memories of running home in a dust storm as the sand coming at you at 40 miles an hour gives your legs a good skin peel your eyebrows a coat of powdery brown granules and your nose some bugars the size of walnuts.

There is nothing romantic about the wind. The rain is Bess the fire is Tess…and they call the wind Mariah. Well that bitch Mariah must have been one abrasive brash blowhard from hell. She probably had ten kids out in the forests of Oregon pushed them all out of the nest at age twelve yelling at them from the porch to man-up! or if a girl learn logging and bring home some firewood or don’t come back. One of siblings said to the other ‘Man! Bess and Tess are prettier than the summer moon but mother can scream like a Banshee and hang the laundry out in a tornado. Let’s name the wind after her.”

I don’t mind the wind like KK does because I have naturally curly hair and there’s nothing better than a cool wind on a hotflashin’ woman’s brow. And the wind is cool today. That’s nice. That hot Texas summer wind that blows the grackles out of the trees and kicks up the dirt at the Taco Shack is a damn nuisance and makes people grumpy. But on those hot days a little wind is better than that godawful stillness that that causes the dogs to pant slinging their saliva into your beer and the June Bugs to fall off the screen.

It’s always something. But I’d rather be here than in California with the mudslides and brush fires or New Orleans with the hurricanes…or Salt Lake City with the Mormons. It’s all relative.