I—”
“Last month,” she cut in, “I dyed my hair purple. Just the ends. Wore it that way for three days.”
I blinked, confused by the sudden change in topic.
“What?”
“You never noticed. Never said a word. That’s when I knew for sure it was over.”
She stood up, gathering her designer purse.
“Remo takes care of himself. He makes an effort. He looks at me.
He really does. And that’s what I need now.”
As they walked past me, Elise paused. “The floor cleaner was also a message about our marriage, Johnny.
I’m done trying to make it shine. I’m done cleaning up after this BORING relationship. The divorce papers will be mailed to you shortly!”
The following weeks felt like drowning in slow motion.
Every morning, I’d catch my reflection in the mirror. My bald head gleamed back at me. And I heard Elise’s cruel words echo in my mind.
I started noticing every gray hair, every wrinkle, and every sign of age that I’d previously ignored. Then one Saturday at the supermarket, I almost crashed my cart into Winona, an old friend from our neighborhood softball league. Oranges rolled everywhere, creating a citrus obstacle course in aisle three.
“Johnny!” She laughed, helping me chase down the runaway fruits. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better. My wife, she… she left me for a younger guy.
Because I’m bald.”
I caught the genuine concern in her eyes, so different from the pity I’d been getting from everyone else. “But it’s okay!” I admitted, gathering the last orange. “Want to grab some coffee and hear a really bad joke about floor cleaner?”
Coffee with Winona turned into weekly running sessions, which became dinner dates, which slowly transformed into something I hadn’t felt in years.
Hope. She listened to my story without judgment, shared her own experiences with heartbreak, and somehow made me laugh even on my darkest days. “You know what your problem was, Jo?
You stopped growing,” she said one day. “I thought I was doing everything right. Career, house, savings—”
“But life isn’t just about checking boxes, buddy.
It’s about evolving, trying new things, and staying curious.”
“Like purple hair?” I smiled weakly. “Like being present, dumbo!” she corrected. “Like noticing when someone dyes their hair purple.”
Later that night, as we walked through the park, she stopped suddenly.
“You know what I love about your head? It catches the sunset perfectly. Like a personal spotlight!”
I laughed for the first time in weeks.
“Are you saying I’m nature’s disco ball?”
“I’m saying you’re perfect the way you are,” she replied, squeezing my hand. “Some people just can’t see that.”
“Even with all my exciting fantasy football stories?”
She stopped walking and turned to face me. “Johnny, you spent 20 years trying to build a perfect future.
Maybe it’s time to start living in the perfect present.”
Looking back now, maybe Elise did me a favor with that bottle of floor cleaner. Not because she was right about my appearance, but because she helped me realize something important: there’s a difference between letting yourself go and simply becoming a different version of yourself. These days, I still have my shiny head.
But I also have someone who looks at me like I’m the most interesting man in the room. Someone who loves running with me on Sunday mornings and trying new recipes on Wednesday nights. Someone who sees me.
REALLY SEES ME. And smiles. Last week, Winona and I were cleaning out my garage when we found that bottle of floor cleaner.
She picked it up, read the note, and smiled. “Should we keep it?”
I took it from her hands and tossed it in the trash. “Nah!
Some things aren’t meant to shine. They’re meant to grow.”
“What are you thinking about?”
I pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “Just how sometimes the best things in life start with a bottle of floor cleaner.”
She laughed and that warm sound made everything feel right.
“Well, your head is pretty shiny today.”
“Perfect for dancing,” I said, pulling her into an impromptu waltz in our kitchen. “You know what makes you different from who you were before?”
“What’s that?”
“You notice things now. Like how I painted my nails green yesterday.”
I spun her gently.
“Mint green. And you missed a spot on your pinky.”
She smiled and I realized that sometimes losing everything is just the universe’s way of making room for something better. And something real.
Do you have any opinions on this? Source: amomama
