It’s been cold in the late afternoons when I’m out feeding our two old sweeties. The last few days I’ve resorted to wearing one of my winter hats.

It prevents the wind from whistling through my ears, not to mention keeps me warm.

And it flattens my hair.

No matter how good the cut and style (which is quite wonderful thanks to Paul Chet), winter hats are hard on a hairdo.

So there are times when I forego the hat, because I have somewhere to go afterward.

Perhaps an event where I don’t want to be seen with flat hair.

And I don’t have time to jump in the shower and start again.

Sounds rather vain when I put it down in words.

I mean, seriously, who cares about how my hair looks?

Other than my hairdresser, I’m hoping people see me for who I am, not how flat or fluffy my hair is.

Do I believe that?

Deep in my heart of hearts?

I’m trying to.


I have some excellent role models at the pasture.

Red is a great example.

He actually revels in looking wild and messy.

Then again, he’s a mustang.

I’m not.

And male.

I’m not.

But he’s helping me get past this silly vanity.

I have the same tender feelings for him, even when he has bits of hay and other debris dangling from his mane.

Honestly, how he looks matters very little to me.

So why am I nattering on about hat hair?

Clearly I’m nowhere near as evolved as my horses.