Campfyre Stories

I have it.

Or so they tell me.  I don’t actually know what it means to "have bam".

I didn’t want to go home on Friday.  This is one of those things that not everyone understands, but those who do REALLY understand it.  I just…  didn’t want to go home.  There was no specific reason.  It wasn’t that I was trying to avoid work that needed to be done or to find something to do.  I just didn’t want to go home.

Alone.

Again.

So I decided to go to the mall to chat with my hairdresser (who is also the mother one of Spawn’s best friends and a friend of mine in her own right).  I knew she generally took her dinner break around the time I’d be getting down there and figured, why not, I haven’t really talked to her in a while.

I spent three hours in the salon not going home.  Granted, I had a good time.  I enjoyed catching up with my hairdresser and her 14 y/o daughter (we gossiped muchly), but there was no good reason for me to be there except that I didn’t want to go home.

But while I was there I decided that I needed something.  What, exactly, was up in the air…  maybe some color?  So I asked about it and said, "I want something that’s noticeable, a little offbeat, but that won’t get me fired."  Which I thought was pretty good.  She worked her magic (being the only person on the planet who can successfully tame the snakes) and, though I couldn’t see it (my hair was damp and it was MY hair, so…) she and her daughter pronounced that "you’ve got bam".

The couple of people I’ve seen since I got the color have agreed that I have bam, but can’t particularly define it except to say the word a little louder, more forcefully and with a hand gesture.  I suppose there’s some validation in the agreement, but the definition still eludes me.

Whatever it is, my hair is nowhere near the same color it was and I, clearly, have "bam".

Even if I don’t know what it means.