2004: Who's your (sugga) Momma?

Ten years ago I was at the peak of my career as a college student. A, being the good wife that she has always been, landed herself a career; not just a better paying crap-job. Unlike her previous employers since we’d been wed, she didn’t have to clean a men's room and straighten up the stack of pornos; take dictation via walkie-talkie from her boss while he was on the can; or work for a psychopath with multiple personalities.

This new advancement meant a few things for us both. For instance, we could go to the ATM and pull out a $20 just for the helluvit. We rolled large so it meant buying a car that was inside of 10-years old. She quit shopping for new clothes in her moms' laundry pile and we both got cell phones. I listed her as ‘Sugga Mamma’ in my contacts. Mostly, now that she worked with and was one of the beautiful people, she vowed in January of 2004 to stop cutting her own bangs leaving the manicuring of her mane to a professional.

As a kid, A’s mom cut her bangs. She was cute. Every picture of her as a girl looks like she was Moe Howard's daughter. I guess part of a girl becoming a woman is learning to cut her own hair. Crooked. Becoming an adult, a professional worthy of being taken seriously meant a changed landscape in our bathroom. A built a cashe of weaponry that made her tresses silky smooth and bouncy with voluptuous curls. It was a good thing we had cell phones, she called me nearly every morning soon after leaving for the office to make sure everything was unplugged in her war room we called a shared bathroom.