volume one hundred and thirty-four

we have been friends for this many

📍Written from the spare room of my best friend’s home in Yuin Country, Bermagui.

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The soft jingle above the chatter of teenagers gossiping could be heard. The sound of the tiny bells drew nearer and when they passed us, I saw they were wrapped around the ankles of someone from the other school. An outfit of homemade tye dye took flight as she leapt onto the sand and the smell of patchouli lingered behind. Hair to her waist flowed in the wind. “I like your anklets!” I called out. “Thanks!” she called back, in a high-pitched and delicate voice, just like a fairy.

I watched on in awe, cross-legged on the still new and therefore too stiff carpet of the school hall. This is the place where we read prayers, presented awards, were disciplined in the masses when someone messed up in an embarrassing way and where we sat in silence aside from the scratch of pencil on paper while we took tests that we thought would make or break the rest of our lives. This day was different. The silence was different. She sat up there, proudly and without fear, shaving all of her hair off, raising money for charity — just one of the many selfless acts I would witness from her over the years.

She told me her friend had skipped town and left with no warning, leaving her wondering what to do because she had nowhere to stay that night. I jumped at my opportunity. “Stay at my house!” I told her. “We can go to the party together!”. We had our first photo as friends, in our dress-up clothes before we left the house. Our small toothy grins and fake innocence were captured on film by my Mum, as we stood on the dated brown and orange laminate floor sitting under turquoise blinds of the window, in my home I was too embarrassed to bring anyone to before then. My teased-to-the-sky-beehive Amy Winehouse hair was a hit.

I dropped out of my final year of school because I was being bullied, something I thought I had left behind as a child but apparently had not. She assured me until I believed her, that I could sit with her and she promised me that she and her friends wouldn’t allow anyone to treat me unkindly again. She made sure I would finish my education, and that I was worthy of that. My final school photo says “Vice School Captain” underneath, and my beaming face says “I came back and finished school with wonderful friends beside me”. I am sporting a fire engine red mullet I cut myself, with the help of those friends.

She returned to town with a pixie cut. Despite being apart, both of us had matching home-bleached dye jobs, overused hair straighteners clogged with product, split ends, enough hairspray to start a fire and a new love for too much make-up. I was so happy to have her back while we partied in nightclubs with boys who didn’t deserve us. We could easily — and sometimes angrily — demand better for each other but it took a long time to accept that for ourselves. We had each other’s back before we had our own.

My bowl cut scooped itself backwards over my head with the motion of me emerging from the warm salty water, slicking itself down. “Your hair looks so sick like that, too!” she told me, after already complimenting my new, shorter do. “Thank you, it feels euphoric,” I replied, feeling where the hair met the shaved undercut at the base of my skull with the tips of my not-yet wrinkly fingers. These were the first whispers of what I had discovered while left by myself in my home and kept away from this home.

I crouched into a squat so she could reach the top. I watched our reflection in the large bathroom mirror, standing in the home she and her love worked hard for many years to build. Daisy the dog sighed with bordom watching us and sulked away to the loungeroom to wait. My best friend held the poised scissors firmly in her hand inspecting the mullet in the making. Hair fell like snow onto my shoulders and my chest. We pause the snips to giggle about how much everyone would love the haircut and how every hair stylist would cringe. She grabbed a paper bag to put all of the trimmings in. “It’s been with you for so long! I will put it in the compost. It’ll become a flower!”

Lovely reader, head into the comments and tell me about your best friend.

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hi, lauren deborah! will always be free and by clicking this cute link, you will get full access to your inbox each week as well as to the archives. If you would like to support my work, you can buy me an ice cream. 🧡🧡🧡 Comments and likes on this post or sharing it with someone, jumping into the chat, listening to my podcast or submitting a question are all other ways you can support me, too, and I love them all!

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here are three things i struggled with this week:

⏰ Amazing that I have somewhere I want to be as soon as possible at the end of my work day (with my besties) so I’m easily finishing work hours earlier than usual. I am wondering why can’t I/don’t I do this always, besties or not?

🫸 Being here, present and in the moment and not thinking about the fact that after here there is no ocean for six weeks. Just enjoy this, LD.

🔍 I am too close to the project. A fresh eye never hurts.

here are three blessings from this week:

🌊 Salt water healing me inside and out.

🪡 When you casually mention you’d like to find a robe at an op-shop to wear around at night because pjs are heavy in your suitcase plus you sleep nude so what’s the point AND YOUR FREAKING AMAZING AND TALENTED BEST FRIEND MAKES YOU ONE!

🐾 Falling asleep to the sounds of the waves and waking up to soft sniffs at my door from my four-legged friend wondering if Aunty Lauren is awake yet.

here are three goals for the coming week:

☎️ Make more phone calls. Send less texts.

✨ Remember when I wanted what I currently have.

🧴 Wear sunscreen.

pics or it didn’t happen:

THE ROBE! are you kidding me? there are POM POMS ON THE POCKETS! come on. it is the best! my best friend is the best and if you want to learn more about so many cool things she does, you can do that here!

I love you. Now I am off to participate in Passata Day and I am excited, to say the least.

🧡, LD (lauren deborah | she/they)