Some thoughts inspired by a hairbrush. Part II.

OK, firstly someone had to point out I said hairs instead of hair in the previous posting. If that offended anyone else whose English is much better than mine, I apologize profusely. I also apologize to those truly posh people for whom an Aveda hairbrush was not good enough to be considered posh. I was not taking it seriously; and shall pay more attention to what I call posh in future. I promise. I would not want the whole Britain to be considered not posh enough just because I happen to like Aveda, you know? 

Now that we have cleared those two aspects, let’s move on to Part II or the hairbrush influenced thoughts.

My grandmother once told me a story about a famous composer who was in her house and saw her hairbrush in the bathroom. ‘Please!’ He exclaimed, ‘Please tell me this is your cat’s brush and not yours? How can you, such a beautiful young lady, have such a filthy hairbrush?’

It was of course, decades ago. And not only my grandmother, but also my mother and I remembered that comment for years.

And so I was just thinking how, sometimes, people in your life could say something that affects you and makes you remember that comment forever.

Once, when I was maybe about 8 years old, I went to see my Russian girlfriend who lived in the same yard. As we chatted and played, I noticed her occasionally glancing over at her older sister, who was lying on the couch, and not participating in our conversation. When people exchange meaningful glances behind your back, they often believe you won’t notice. But you always do.

So, when we went to play in the yard, I confronted my friend. What was that about, I wanted to know? She confessed that her sister refused to play with us, because she did not like me. That was fine, but I wanted to know why. Only when you are that young, you can expect your female friend to tell you the truth about something like that. My girlfriend blushed and said it was because I talked too much. Her sister found me incredibly irritating.

Needless to say, I never spoke to the sister again. But her comment stung. Maybe because it was…hmm….quite relevant. I do talk a lot. My husband talks an awful lot, and my child talks so much that sometimes I think I will crush the car if she does not stop for at least a minute.

On another occasion, a foreign exchange student was sitting next to me at an arts lesson at the university, watching me paint, and suddenly took my hand.

‘Oh, I thought you were a classy girl!’ He said, looking at my nails. I glanced down and realized that my nail polish was chipped. The truth was, when I left the house that morning, they were still OK. But I did not attempt to argue with him. He was right. Chipped nail polish is a huge no-no.

Of course, there were other comments. I seem to attract those. But not every single one I would remember. I am not sure what it is, whether it has to really hit a nerve, or be true, or something else. Perhaps, it has to be something you already know about yourself, but secretly hope others won’t notice. But there is something good to take out of every mean (or simply truthful?) comment. I definitely never have chipped nails these days, and I always make effort to pause and listen when I talk to someone. It is not easy, but I try.