The other day I went through the memory boxes my Grandma had put together and kept in her attic for me. Even though they’ve been in my storage for years, I’d never been through them before.
I giggled as I pulled out rude notes I wrote.
I marveled at old headshots:
I found cards and notes from my high school graduation, like this completely normal one from my dad, in which he expresses his sincerest wishes to buy me the cheapest juicer that can be bought in honor of my big day.
There were cute birthday cards from my kindergarten friends. Original stories and a completely transcribed script of Beauty and The Beast that I had written out by hand.
These were all funny and cute things to comb through. These are things you might expect to see in your own memory box. But there are some things that come out of memory boxes that you do not expect.
Slightly disturbing things, even.
Things like THIS:
… (these “…” are my my written interpretation of stunned silence)
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL, right?
Like, why? Why would this BE?
You guys, just go with me here a moment. This means there was a real live day, back in 1993, when my hair was cut (normal), and then my Grandma, bless her heart, thought to herself, “I have a great idea! I think I’ll sweep up the hair on the floor and then wrap it lovingly in paper towels, and then stuff it into a manilla envelope for Krysta’s memory box. She might like to have this old hair someday.” (Not normal).
My chopped off and discarded, now twenty four year old hair.
What do I even do with this? I can’t begin to think what one might do with their hair from when they were twelve years old EXCEPT write about it.
It is for this reason that my Grandmother is my very favorite person in the entire universe for giving me this gift.
I am so confused and in wonder and disturbed. This is gold.
Ten years from now I won’t remember the pictures and paintings or schoolwork, but I will most definitely, absolutely, remember this.
I’ll say to Jeremy when we are sixty years old, “Remember that one time I was unpacking my memory box when…?”
I decided that the only considerate thing to do with the hair package, besides tell you, was to pass the surprise on to someone else.
So I packed the hair back up and stuck it in the box, with no explanations, where it will languish in my garage among my keepsakes for decades and decades until one day, when I’m gone, my kids will go through my crap and discover it.
I’d give anything to be there.
Can you even imagine their faces? The only thing more disturbing than unearthing a package of your own hair, is unearthing a package of someone else’s hair.
I’m telling you what.
What can I say? I’m a giver.