When I was in Florida last winter my daughter arranged for me to have a haircut with a stylist in the salon she goes to. She was considering switching to this stylist, because her own stylist was, well, let's call it lackluster. I needed a cut really, really bad. I'd had one cut during the 3 months that preceeded my arrival and I was terribly shaggy. The stylist I was to see is named ... Vitorio. Isn't that just delicious? Veeetorrrrrio! He is Italian. Duh. But I mean "from the old country" Italian, with a delicious accent. And he was a find for several reasons. One is that I felt more pampered and beautiful than I've felt since 35 years ago when I lived in Albuquerque and my stylist did excellent work ... and regularly tried to jump my bones! He was a cute Latino! There is *something* about those Latin types!



I'd gone to the appointment with a picture in hand (on the right), ready to say, "something like this." However, after watching him a few minutes with the client before me I shoved the picture into my purse. This man didn't need hints from me! All I said to him was to give me something easy to manage. He styled my hair like you see in the photo posted on my profile. I loved it. I also bought some product like he used so I could manage on my own.




Upon return to KC, I have tried to find replacement for one of the products. I couldn't find it anywhere. It is an Italian product which might be one of the problems relating to finding it in the US. I tried on line, and the only web site that carried this particular item was messed up and I couldn't order. I tried a couple other similar products, and they are OK, but don't work as well. So I called my daughter a few days ago and asked if she could buy a couple of them and mail them to me. Of course, she said yes.

Now I'm getting to the *real* topic for my post. Not that raving about Vitorio was a unpleasant!!

Yesterday the box arrived from Florida. It was addressed to "Mom." Not my name. Just "Mom." My heart melted. I know it is a little silly, but it was so sweet that she put that on the box without concern for formality. She has done that before, but it really struck me this time. I mentioned to seven just yesterday that grandchildren are our rewards for raising children. Sometimes, the rewards are the children themselves.








My precious challenges (and my rewards) back in 1970.



















My son with one of my rewards.












My daughter and another of my rewards. Isn't this picture just so tender?