I believe in Santa, again

The Christmas I was five, I determined it was time to meet Santa. The true Santa -- not his department store representative -- in the flesh. On Christmas Eve I lay still while the house around me fell quiet. It was not long after my elders had retired that I heard a rustling in the sitting room. I tiptoed down the hall, hiding behind the piano, ready to leap into the arms of our jolly intruder. And there she was, my mother, filling the stockings on the fireplace, placing the presents under the tree, finally relaxing with the milk and cookies we had left for Santa. Surprisingly, I was not devastated. Actually, I became rather smug with this knowledge that I was sure none of my peers were privy to. I felt I had no choice but to become pragmatic, putting fantasy in its place, and move forward into the real world.

Recently, I was having my hair styled. My hairdresser is most probably the only man who has his way with me, however on this occasion I balk at his suggestions. He wants to see me RED. He observes my demeanour lifeless -- my appearance both drab and invisible. “This is a gift!” says he, “today only.” While cutting my hair, it takes me about 15 minutes of deep consideration to digest both his words and desire to lift my mood. When he tells me I have only a few more minutes to take him up on his offer, I open my heart to this very kind gesture and accept his gift. While my head is slathered with a smelly paste, I take the opportunity to remember how many gifts I have been blessed with and that the spirit of Santa can be with us everyday, if we acknowledge our own ability to give and receive.

Here's to a well-RED year: Read, Eat, Drink!

November 2009