Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
The long ringlets of white synthetic hair were so many; I could only make out a nose. The red and white fabric of his hat, jacket, and boots was shiny and soft to the touch, but synthetic too. And the wide black belt, plastic. Most notably, the sprig of holly attached to him, fake.
If this was Santa, he was a man of little fashion sense. And, cheap. What’s more, he was well preserved in a way that I didn’t care to appreciate. His hands were absent wrinkles. Not a one. Surely, Santa should be a grandfatherly man.
But there he sat, jollying it up on our floral couch with me in my floral dress sitting, suspicious, upon his lap. Yes, as he handed me a small gift wrapped in pea green tissue paper (it was the 70s), I was being told in no uncertain terms, “This is Santa.”
How very disappointing.
(c) 2012-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
Published in "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
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