As you’ve cast your eyes across some of my yarns over the past few months, you may have come to the conclusion that I have a number of “best” friends. 

Usually people have one, maybe two, three tops, best friends. A reason there’s a “best” in there. I wholeheartedly agree; best does only refer to the top tier, the apex, the Creme of the crop. It just so happens that my pinnacle holds a fair few more than most. 

I have about eight top mates, all ranging in friendship circles, ages, genders (well, the two of the three categories) and personality types. There’s Steph, Beavs, Ash, Jon, Cock, James, Laura, Kim, Aroha, Xtina (that one will never fade on my mind), Ellie, DEB, Jaas, Katie, Nicky… actually, I’d say the list would be upwards of 10, bordering 29. My most fun and fav, those I enjoy being with the most and know me like no other, with whom each there is a different sort of relationship.

Which brings me to one of my most very special and bestest of the best: Abbey Missen. 

Abbey and I first crossed paths when I (finally) came to the conclusion that the platinum Fruju look was no longer (actually, never had done) doing it for me and it was time to go back to the full head of foils. In my absence from appointing at one of the local salons, I found on return that it had changed hands and was now being run by the Missen clan, with oldest daughter Abbey as the head hairdresser. Admiring her ombré bob (long before these do’s were the current colour and chop), I booked in with Ab to fix my frazzled follicles, and a deep deep kinship took root (loving these hair puns? I’m having a jolly old chuckle). 

(Must clarify this was a good seven years ago. I haven’t spotted the Draco do for a long while). 

From the get go it was a different sort of friendship. Although of a differing nature, Ab had her own battles waging war in her mind that meant she understood me and my “quirks” (I.e., fucked upness). Ed had always been hidden from the majority of my chums, if ever coming up was very seldomly referred to or explained, but with Ab she barricaded in with it full force and wouldn’t let me brush it under any rug, matt or blanket, let alone  carpet; a common phrase from her end to me was, “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to talk about it. We’re going to”. This wasn’t in an unsympathetic or mean way, mind – Abbey was one of the very very few, perhaps the only, that didn’t tiptoe around on tether hooks. As a result, she quickly became my go to whenever anything good, bad, standard or glad occurred. 

Although our lives have taken different paths, that bond has never broken down. Of course there have been instances of clashes and what not – both being of strong personalities and saying what’s what, there’s bound to be – but I know out of anyone Ab is the one who is straight with me and tells me what I need to hear, not want to. 
And she’s there for me like no others; my fourth or so appointment at the clinic with Kay I really didn’t want to go and was on the verge of pulling a sicky – how ironic is that, pulling a sicky from being sick – and told Abbey so on the phone. Next minute I looked out on the driveway and there was her car; even though she had had the week from hell, she drove me to my appointment, sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half, then drove me home. 

I haven’t got a sister, thus find the relationships between female siblings quite intriguing. Out of any I have observed, none has struck me  as so strong and solid than that of Abbey and her younger sister Tayla. 
Abbey looks out for her little sis like you wouldn’t believe. She hangs out with her all the time, considers her in every situation and makes her look fab with regular hairdos and shopping trips. Like any good older sis, right? Perhaps so. But you see, Tayla has Down Syndrome. Yet how Ab interacts with her, lends her opportunities and encourages her to  go after her aspirations is absolutely awe inspiring. Really, truly and utterly – on occasions I have even garaged a sob over it (I.e.,  shed a tear). 

As of late, Abbey and her husband Beau (out of anyone I have ever met, this creature takes out the definition of “sweetheart”) have been undergoing treatment to have a baby. I won’t go into ins and outs of it – it’s not my journey to tell, although I have received permission for mentioning – but it is a heartbreak of hurdles involving intense drugs (and not the fun kind), stress, coercing by calendar (if you catch my current) and trucketloads of tears. As of yet treatment has not – what an actually proper use of the term – taken seed, but they stand together and soldier on, injecting the next lot of steroids and praying for the much desired pregnancy of a little Cresswell. 

It’s here I feel a lot of guilt. 

I look at Ab, listen as she tells me of the side effects, the pressure, the sense of despair with every negative result, and feel such a feeling of rue. I mean, although now rather out of of my own hand hold, it started out as being off my own six (get it? Cricket reference?) that I started starving and sickening my own body into potential barrenness. 
While I have fist pumped over all the months and years my period has not made an appearance, Abbey prays every month hers won’t, though for much different reasons. I feel sick that she so desperately wants a baby but as yet has not been able to have one through no fault of her own, while you could say I’ve purposely made it the case for myself. 

However I have no doubt the two will become parents, whichever whatever way that comes about. 
I don’t know what I’d do without Abbey in my life. Some people express surprise when they realise we are best friends – be it our lives seemingly being of different priorities, our personalities, who knows; all I do is that I love that girl insane amounts, and that my life would be far more glum and full of self pity if she wasn’t in it. 

You know that saying, “has a heart of gold”? Well Abbey has a heart of rose gold. Although on the exterior she can come across as hard wearing and sturdily staunch, inside there is a beautiful soul who is full of eons of love for those she cares about. (Must clarify; I mean hard and staunch as in front across, not looks – Abbey is one of the prettiest people I’ve ever met). 

(I’m sorry, but needs amust for some hairdresser puns here; brush them off if need be. I have to say, many highlights of my life include times with Abbey. I love combing through old photos of our colourful times, reliving memories. I don’t know what I’d do if she was cut out of my life, it’d be such a blow(wave) – but I think it’s a friendship which will never dye). (Really wanted to slip a “perm” in there but alas, not to be). 

You have different sorts of friendships with different sorts of people. In first year Uni (why does it always come back to Uni learnt theories? How fab that my mass student loan has something to show for itself – that learnt referred to in my posts) we learnt about the onion theory, where interpersonal communications can be classed as where they fit in regards to how many layers of an onion they penetrate (also referred to on Shrek). In deeper friendships, the two people delve beneath the layers of the vegetable (is it a vegetable?), sharing secrets and discussing more profound topics, being closer and of a much stronger relationship. (I’ve really fucked up this explanation. I do apologise).

In such a metaphorical analogy, I can solemnly say that over the past seven years Abbey and my’s onion has been diced to smitheerens. If a friendship group was a bag of liquorice allsorts, Abbey would be the one covered in rainbow hundreds and thousands – the most special, stand out and full of colour (both in personality and ability to alter your do from a colour chart). She is SPECTACULAR. 

(And an onion is classed as a vegetable). 

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