The Secret Life of a Woman in Her Thirties

Yesterday was Saturday, February 14th. I had my alarm set for 8am, because I had booked the first available appointment with my hairstylist to remove my sew in.

I left the house and stopped by Dunkin on the way. I’m a regular, so it’s never a grab and go. We typically exchange a few words first.

“Where are you headed,” the manager asked, making conversation.

“I’m going to get my hair done,” I responded, cheerfully.

Oh,” he said. “Getting ready for later.” He smiled.

I laughed and said, “No, I don’t have any plans for later,” and told him to have a good day, as I headed out the door.

My appointment was at 10am, and for anyone who knows me, I was at her doe on the hour. I don’t play about being time.

My hairstylist, however, another story. Bless her heart. She strolled into the silent corridor about 20 minutes later, coming around the corner bumping Cardi B with a bouquet of pink flowers. How could I be mad. lol

We went on to enjoy a salon full of Black women, mimosas and me, the luxury of having my hair and scalp tended to. Of course, we discussed plans, and it was different for everyone. One woman was married and her husband had made plans to roadtrip to Baltimore. Another woman, also single, had an itinerary of galentine activities planned. Then there was me.

My mom sent an apple payment at the top of the morning from her and my dad with the message “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I received flowers unprovoked yesterday.

Do I have a man? No.

Am I dating anyone? No.

But unbeknowst to me, I would arrive home to flowers waiting for me in the lobby.

It’s a peculiar thing being a woman in her 30s.