Rainy days…bad for my hair, great for my soul.

There’s something romantic about a rainy day… until you look in the mirror.

My hair, once full of promise, gives up completely. I walk outside looking like a backup dancer in a humid ‘80s music video.

And yet, despite the follicular betrayal, I love rainy days.

I need them.

There’s a quiet kind of magic to the sound of rain tapping on the window like a gentle reminder to slow down.

Sleeping during a rainstorm? Pure luxury. The kind of sleep where you wake up briefly, hear the soft patter of droplets, sigh contentedly, and sink back into your dreams like a marshmallow in hot cocoa.

And don’t get me started on the joy of taking to your bed or couch and diving into a delicious book.

So yes, my hair might file for emancipation on rainy days, but my soul? Wrapped in a worn NY Giants sweatshirt, from the 1987 Super Bowl, savoring a cup of coffee, basking in the glow of low-stakes decisions, “Do I rewatch the movie, The Holiday, for the 25th time?

Let the rain fall…