There is a loose hair in my bra. It has grown from being mildly annoying to a major nuisance.
I’m sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the symphony. That makes it sound like I attend the symphony often, but this is the first time in, oh, 14 years that I’ve been, so don’t picture me with blue hair yet. I’m just moving that direction.
Anyway, front row of the mezzanine. The lights are not dim. I think that’s to keep us awake, as are the straight-back, non-theater chairs we’re sitting on.
We’re listening to New World Symphony, which apparently is the pre-Disney version of Hiawatha. Who knew? I’m enjoying the concert but this loose hair is making me want to throw myself over the safety railing.
If you’re a non-bra-wearing man and have never had a loose hair trapped, then you’re thinking, “So what?” But that hair has a mind of its own. It moves around. It goes up and down. Even if you hold as still as possible, it plays “feather” and tickles you like a bad boyfriend.
And when you’re sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the not-dimly-lit symphony, there is absolutely no way to reach between your boobs and pull it out. You can’t even itch. If you were at the Monster Truck rally, sure, go ahead and dig all you want, but at the symphony, you just have to go Marine and bear it.
I did. I’m proud to say that, in spite of my upbringing, I did not pull my top off and scream. I sat politely, listened attentively, and as soon as we got to the car, I dove into my bra and scratched and scratched and scratched.