Some friendships are twenty years old. Some are twenty weeks old. Both can change your night.
A few weeks ago, I went out for the first time in a long time.
I spent the day getting ready.
My godmother, Luvie, has always said, “When you look good, you feel good.”
When my parents got sick, I understood exactly what she meant.
There were days when the hairdresser and the nail salon had very little to do with beauty and everything to do with feeling human. A few hours where somebody washed your hair, handed you a cup of tea, and reminded you that life existed beyond hospital rooms, medication schedules and worry.
So I got my hair done. I got my nails done. And I prepared to leave the house.
One of my girlfriends came over to get ready with me.
We’ve been friends for almost twenty years. The kind of friendship where entire decades sit between the first story and the latest one.
Alexa was playing my new favourite playlist. Makeup was spread across every available surface. We sat on the floor in front of the mirror sharing a Domino’s pizza. Thin crust, obviously.
We talked about heartbreak and grief.
We talked about men and how women are, in many respects, the superior gender.
We talked about how long it had been since we’d done this.
For a few hours, we got to revisit a version of ourselves that existed before adulting became a full-time occupation.
Before everyone’s diary needed coordinating and before responsibilities, relationships, caregiving, careers and grief claimed their respective corners of our lives.
Then we got to the party.
The humidity arrived in one felt gust of ick.
Within minutes my hair had abandoned every agreement it had made with my hairdresser. Sweat was collecting everywhere. I could feel the careful preparation unravelling in real time.
One of my friends looked at me and immediately started gathering my hair away from my neck.
Neither of us said anything.
I stood still and she went to work.
The only problem was that neither of us had a hair tie.
A newer friend spotted the situation almost immediately.
I’ve only known her a few months.
Before anyone could ask, she pulled the elastic from her own hair and handed it over.
Problem solved.
Throughout the evening, I kept finding another girlfriend.
We’ve known each other since we were three years old.
The party was busy. People moved in and out of conversations. Groups formed and dissolved. Yet somehow we kept ending up in the same place.
A conversation here.
A dance there.
A quick check-in while passing through.
Every time I looked up, there she was.
Life has been life-ing recently.
Weeks become months. Catch-ups become voice notes promising to catch up. Good intentions become diary conflicts.
Yet there we were, finding each other over and over again.
Three women.
Three completely different chapters of my life.
One I’ve known for almost twenty years.
One I’ve known for only a few months.
One I’ve known since I was three years old.
I love stories like these.
Because I have always been interested in the things people do when nobody is paying attention.
The gestures so instinctive they barely register as generosity to the person making them.
Nobody tells a story about somebody helping them put their hair up.
Nobody says, “You’ll never guess what happened. My friend gave me a hair tie.”
These are the moments I remember.
The friend who rearranges her afternoon.
The friend who instinctively reaches for your hair before you’ve even complained about the heat.
The friend who gives away the elastic from her own head.
The friend who keeps finding you in a crowded room.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become less interested in what people say friendship is and more interested in what it looks like in practice.
By the next morning, the pizza was gone, the music had stopped and my hair was a lost cause.
The hair tie was still in my handbag.
I think it still is.
