Henna—and my bad-ass wife

Today was Arts Fest ’10 in my hometown, which meant a whole lot of free stuff for the village. We took the tykes to Kid Yoga, to Library Opera, to face painting. Hit up the downtown library for an hour or so. Then, to cap off the day, there was free Henna tattoos at an Indian restaurant.

I’d never had Henna. Crap, I’ve never liked Henna. But because life is an experience, I got my hand tatted up (see above). Actually think it’s sorta cool, though the wife rightly believes my hand now looks like that of a 12-year-old girl. Nobody’s perfect.

Anyhow, interesting aftermath that speaks to the character of the wife. All the stuff was supposed to be free, including the Henna. The artist, a woman named Sadaf Piracha, did wonderful work, and didn’t seem especially irked about money or foot traffic or whatever. Yet after we all had our tatts completed and finished dinner, the wife went to the lobby, where Piracha was set up. Two teenage girls walked in and asked to have Henna done. The owner of the restaurant asked if they were planning on eating. When the girls said no, she told them it’d be $5 each. Which, of course, was absolute bullshit.

My wife stewed. And stewed. And stewed. When we got home, she said, “I think I should call the owner and say something.” She did—and gave her a pretty strong lecture on false advertising and decency vs. scam and why we’ll never visit her establishment again.

It’s easy not to say something. Too easy. The wife—as tough and righteous as they come—stood up.

(And that’s why I’m afraid to tell her I have an out-of-wedlock son named Tollbooth.)