Open letter to my hair feather.

Dear Hair Feather,

We met in California, when a few of my friends had never seen you before. We thought you were cute.

What fun!  What whimsy! What Californication! we told ourselves.

Then I returned to Texas, whereupon I found that most college-aged girls had made the exact same exclamations.  But didn't they know this was our original fashion statement? How rude. We were suddenly less original than previously thought.

Then I heard that Ke$ha had also bought into the trend. Ke$ha spells her name with a dollar sign and makes millions of dollars every few days. The hair feather was all we had in common.  

And then I met a small five year-old girl in the playland of Chik-Fil-A -- I have a nephew, you know -- and, upon seeing my feather, she exclaimed, "Wow! I have one too!" and pulled out a glittery, hot pink feather from the ponytail of her baby hair.  Then she shimmied back up into the playtubes. I'm afraid this was the nail in your wee coffin, dear hair feather. 

I am not opposed to things that perhaps seem outside of my age bracket. After all, I am a Belieber and occasionally shop at Forever 21. I was 21 five years ago and then turned 22. There was no Forever about it. 

But now I am moving on to Seminary, where I fear Great Theological Thinkers may frown upon such things as an accoutrement belonging to bird taking residence in my hair. I hope said Thinkers do not read my blog.

So bye-bye, Hair Feather. Thanks for a rockin' few months.