How I Met My Friend Carrie

While Tripp has been home holding down the fort (handling minor renovation details like the roof coming off the house and little stuff like that), Kelsey and I have been in Houston visiting our dear friends.

Our families have known each other since before Tripp and I were a family.

***Warning!  Nostalgia Alert***

It was October 1991.

My fiancé and I were at Woodland Hills Mall.  Tripp was probably sporting his Levi’s 501’s and an OU t-shirt.  I was probably wearing my favorite Guess jeans and Cole-Haan loafers. 

Anyway, like Tripp is prone to do, he decided at the spur of the moment that he absolutely had to get his hair cut.  (The thing about Tripp is that he could care less about his hair.  He just wants it done and doesn’t care who does it.)  It just so happened that we were right by a hair salon.  Perfect.   We walk in and Tripp asks if there is someone who could cut his hair.  Up walks a beautiful girl with enormous blue eyes and a big, happy smile who enthusiastically offers to cut my beloved’s hair. 

In the time it took to wash, cut, and dry Tripp’s hair, the seeds of friendship were planted.  (And Tripp’s hair had never looked better.) 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

Twenty years later, Carrie and I are still friends.  She’s no longer a hair stylist, but she is still one of the most dynamic, outgoing, creative, and fearless women I know.  And she has taught me some valuable life lessons – namely:

  • how to properly rat my hair
  • how to effectively wield a glue gun
  • that it doesn’t have to be perfect (I’m still working on that one)

One of the most wonderful things about our friendship has been watching our families grow up together.  Our husbands are friends.  Our children our friends.  Quite honestly, some of our best family memories have been spent with them.

My friendship with Carrie and her family is one of my greatest blessings.  And I’ll treasure it for the rest of my life…Everyday. 

Peace, Kelly

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About Minding My Nest

wife, mom, not-so-empty nester.
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