My Mother-in-Law's Mousse

We were out of town last week for a few days to attend our annual Ministry Summit (AKA District Council) and, as usual, I ran around the house to pack everything needed to maintain me.

The list is getting longer with each passing year. Sigh.

Side note: I hate packing for trips. Who knows what I want to wear next Tuesday? Why do I have to decide that now? I might not be in the mood for that outfit then. And I might be bloated. That changes everything.

It wasn't until we were at my in-law's house that I realized I'd forgotten all of my hair care potions and cremes that provide soft as silk hair. All I had to work with was a travel-size can of hairspray and my mother-in-law's mousse.

I did my normal routine of shampooing and conditioning. Of blow-drying and using a round brush. Of using the flat iron on the rebellious strands. And was left with straw-like hair. Perfect, I thought, everyone at the conference will be staring at my horse hair.

But no one noticed.

I've learned that unless we are showing the world an eyeful of cleavage (front or rear), are wearing leggings as pants (because they are not), or are dressed like we're on a midnight run to Walmart, no one pays any attention. They're all too concerned with their own appearance to give us any mind.

When I saw my friends all I was concerned with was that they smiled in response to me. That they cared enough to speak, and I'm sure that's all they cared about when they saw me. Because it really is what's on the inside that's important.

I'm not saying we should pay no attention to our outward appearance, we should be clean and remember who we are representing. We should try to look nice when we leave the house. I'm a firm believer in house clothes and out clothes, and try to never cross the two. The people who see me Sunday morning comment on how nice I always look, to which I think, you have no idea. Most of my week finds me in an old tee shirt and sweatpants. There's stuff to clean and cook, and I like to keep my nice clothes looking nice.

Yet, even my very best friends wouldn't mind seeing me at my worst. In fact, they do...when I Marco Polo them throughout the day. But they don't care. They love me for who I am. And that's what matters.

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