Nice hair

4th grade. Valentine's Day. Mr. Roach had us staple together 4 x 6 pages, one page for each kid in class to write something sentimental.

I, ever the romantic, took this to mean that Robbie might finally have a means of declaring his undying devotion and love for me.

After having everyone else write something sweet & sappy in my book, I finally approached Robbie, shyly.

"Could you please write something in my pages?" I asked hesitantly.

I remember he grabbed my book and quickly scribbled something without seeming to think about what he would write. Hope bloomed. This was it! Finally!

Back at my seat I hurriedly flipped to the last page and my breath caught. Tears formed in my eyes. In his messy scrawl, he had written, "You have nice hair." Nice hair? Nice hair?!

Surely he meant to say more but felt pressed for time! Surely he would have written a more committed declaration had Brian not been looking over his shoulder!

Nice hair?

Well, I held onto the belief that he carried a hidden flame for me until we were well into middle school. And then that hope was extinguished when I caught him french kissing Rachel G. (the whore!) after school.

Now, with an adult eye for nuance & a more mature understanding of the back-handed compliment, I understand that Robbie never held any flame for me at all. After all, the only compliment he could give me was one on my frizzy, blonde 'do.

I realize this now more than ever since I recently paid the same compliment to someone who sent me a picture of himself, garbed in 1970s attire, complete with coke-bottle glasses and a big mop of hair.

"You have really nice hair!" I mustered, not knowing where to begin.

And that, my friends, is full circle.