On the Fourth Day of a Feminine Christmas

This is one of my favorite Victorian Christmas images.  The lovely chatelaine is receiving a large white package,  red roses, and an accompanying note.  Whatever is in that box, I bet it makes her feel beautiful.

Two years ago, for my daughter’s Epiphany birthday, we went to the city to have lunch and shop.  It was a magical winter day with snow flitting around us as we traveled by train.  As I waited for my daughter to try on some clothes, I wandered over to a small wooden kiosk that was wonderously decorated to mirror the snowy outside.  My eye lit on an amber hair clip with a tracery of fiery crystal.  It was lovely.  I’ve never been hair-proud – my locks are baby-fine and require gobs of “product” to stay in place and therefore, hair accessories always slip off.  But this one looked like it might actually work on me.

The lovely, soft-spoken proprietress of the hair accessory kiosk saw me admiring the pretty amber clip and offered to help me try it on.  She pulled the sides of my hair up and off to the back and attached it with the clip.  Then she took a photograph of the back showing me that even on my hair, I could wear a hair accessory.  And to my delight, I saw my highlighted locks cascading attractively around the twinkling clip.   I plunked down the last of the money in my Christmas budget and watched while she carefully wrapped my purchase in gold tissue and then placed it in a snowy white chiffon bag with a ribbon.

It is no exaggeration to say that I have worn that hair clip every day for nearly two years.  Not always to work but on weekends and at night after work.  It elevates everything I have on – my shorts and t-shirts in summer, and my at-home loungewear in winter.  It makes me feel beautiful.

The other day after a long day at work, I heard a slight snap when I attached the clip in the usual way.  The piece had broken in two right in my fingers!  And although it had given me a lot more service than it was probably meant to, I felt sad and knew I was going to miss it.

I googled and then emailed the company that made the clip.  In my subject line I wrote “I broke my clip!” and I attached a picture.  Ten minutes later, I received a response from “Joy” who wrote back with “Oh no, Donna!” in her subject line.

Joy instructed me to take one more picture of the other side of the clip and send it to her.  She then wrote that it could be fixed and gave me the company’s address and told me to email her the tracking number once it was on its way.  And as I stood in line at the post office with all the others mailing out Christmas packages, I realized that it was not lost on me that the hair clip company’s representative was named “Joy”.

When I wrote with the tracking number, I asked Joy how much it would cost to fix my hair clip.  She shot back that it would cost not a penny and I would have it back in my possession by Christmas.  I should tell you here that I did also write her about the snowy Epiphany, my daughter’s birthday and how the sparkly hair clip became my private keepsake.  Afterall, is it not true that the best shopping excursions imbue the objects of our affection with loving thoughts of the day it was purchased, who we were with, or even the sweet salesperson who assisted us?

Now I don’t expect a grand entrance by the US Postal Service on the day my treasured hair clip is delivered –  no livered postal carrier, no roses…not a whit like our grand Victorian lady’s – just a plain box tossed onto my porch.  But that box, like hers, will contain something that makes me feel beautiful.