Henna. People use it in their hair. I did this once. I came out of the whole ordeal looking like the niece of Ronald McDonald. But on this occasion—the celebration of Dulce’s birthday(s) and her sendoff to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where she’ll now be living and working—a temporary Henna tattoo was in order.

In the past, I might’ve collapsed at the thought of one of my dearest friends moving to Saudi Arabia. But she texts me. She’s right there through my computer and phone. People fall in love online, get catfished on the daily. Work up images of who a person might be, falling in love before ever meeting. So why can’t I stay in love with a real life friend via social media and text messaging? And WhatsApp.

My favorite story of hers so far involves her selection of health insurance. All the boilerplate language and options on display. Then she looks under obstetrics and gynecology allowances, fertility treatments and the like. $30,000. Per wife.

As for the Henna, a bit of warning. A week or so afterward, you’ll walk around looking diseased, or as if your hand was named Myrna and has been living somewhere in Florida, bathing in baby oil. Hello brown age spots.

I’ve soaked my hand in oil, used toothpaste, and I even, low of lows, showered. Henna is still at it, making my hand look like a shoe.