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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Hand-Me-Downs.”

i am the oldest of 3 daughters. i usually did not have to have hand-me-down clothing the way my sisters were stuck with. sometimes, my mom or grandma would bring home garage sale clothes, but i can only remember wearing those clothes as play clothes. maybe i wouldn’t be caught dead in garage sale clothes.

i want to smile thinking back. i would never have worn used clothing to school. when i became a mom myself, i started frequenting Goodwill and other thrift shops because my own daughter was growing so fast, buying her new clothes would have broke the bank.

I still shop at thrift stores for her. Usually i can find something that still has a lot of wear left. thrift stores are also good for finding great stuff to repurpose for Hallowe’en costumes.

I still have a mental stigma about wearing used clothes. I do buy some clothing items from Ebay, but even those I just wear around the house.

I guess I’m a snob.

I think my sisters did not like to wear hand-me-downs. They had plenty of new stuff too. Clothes were cheaper back then, relatively speaking.

My home is currently cluttered with hand-me-down knick-knacks from deceased relatives. I have been learning to let them go and bless others, little by little.

There is so much sentiment, though, in knick-knacks. i remember certain items and where they sat in my grandma’s house. i wish i could go back in time to see how the item looked one last time.

My mom gives me books that she’s read. I sell them on half.com, or list them on bookmooch.com, because she prefers mysteries, and they are not my favorite genre. But they take up space in the house I don’t really have room for.

Maybe that’s why I struggle with hand-me-downs: I don’t have room for the baggage that can come along with such “gifts.”

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Treat.”

Beautiful fall day today. I cannot believe it’s November. Even though I stay inside mostly all day, I love the sun and the warmth.

Last weekend, I treated myself to a haircut and color, and some new makeup. I know that is pathetic; people get their hair cut every day. But I go a very long time between haircuts. It had been at least a year since I had been to a salon.

I forget that I do deserve to look nice–that I can look nice. Depression robs a person of caring about appearances. It’s so easy to just give up caring about anything–even getting out of bed.

But some of the not caring is just being in a habit, too. A habit of the same thing day after day after day… everything the same. So you do the minimal to get along in life.

You sit in the salon chair, making small-talk with the stylist, telling her how you’d like your hair cut, choosing a color, discussing¬† a few other things, like the weather perhaps.

The stylist mixes up the color and starts to apply it. It’s cold on the scalp, and it can slightly sting. I close my eyes and let the stylist do her work.

Then comes the itchy part, as the color sets and activates.

Finally, thirty minutes later, I get my rinse. Warm water massages my scalp as the stylist works magic.

Then it’s back to the cutting chair where the scissors snip-snip, removing a good two or three inches of hair.

Then it’s the final touches, blow-drying, flat-ironing to bring on the shine.

I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself.

It takes a minute to get used to the new look. Do I hate it? I’ll get used to it, eventually. When the color fades just a bit, and the hair grows just a bit, it will be perfect.

I should treat myself more often. I almost always feel amazing after a color and style.

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