I took car-seat baby for a walk today and stopped in my tracks when I saw one of my Goody, black, hair elastics in the middle of the road.

I knew it was one of mine because of the thickness, the location on the ground and the fact the one I always had in my pocket, my spare was missing.

I hesitated and thought about picking it up and reminded myself I wasn’t a homeless person.

Still, it weighed on my mind.

It was my elastic and I have so few left. The Goody elastic wraps four perfect twists around my ponytail without leaving me in pain hours later.

Car-seat baby had obviously dropped it while out walking the other day. I often hand her my mailbox keys or a small squeezable item to keep her occupied. Also, I never stray from my path. I’m like a raccoon that way.

Further, one of the neighbours had placed a rogue baby sandal on one of their larger armour stones at the front of their property in an offering to the dufus parent who didn’t notice their stroller-riding child had kicked it off.

I had no problem collecting my sandal, why can’t I pick up the hair elastic?

Was I worried the possibility existed that a fellow walker, perhaps having recently been diagnosed with head lice, who also enjoys the up-do and shops at Shoppers Drug Mart, tossed the elastic in disgust minutes before shaving her head and listing her house? (The only rational reaction to the news of lice in the house)

I know it’s gross. It’s a dirty, elastic on the ground but for some reason, I hated leaving it behind. If it was a missing polly pocket shoe or my puppy, I would have picked it up. Not to mention I had become an instant hypocrite/litter-bug.

There lies the thick, black, ouchless, Goody, hair elastic. Stretch in peace old friend.