Back to my incident. There I am, brush in hand, looking at myself in the dim light and thinking how my hair needs some lift due to the new conditioner I used. That stuff will be going back to the store as soon as I can find my receipt. Now what did I do with that thing? It’s then I remember I have some hair raising, volumizer, poofy stuff in the cupboard below. I hadn’t used it in ages, but it should still be good. Do those things expire and sour like lumpy milk? Squirting a little on my right palm, I pat it here and there and everywhere on my head. A slight almond scent, I don’t recall smelling the last time I used it, wafted through the shower’s steam. Eyes closed, rub, rub, more pat, pat and I am ready to observe a fuller head of hair. Expecting one thing and seeing another equals SHOCKER! What I observe is a semi-greasy mass of semi-curly waves. I did not verify what I grabbed from under the sink. What is it? I dash to the window to take a look at the label in the breaking light of dawn. Remember, it’s pretty dark in the bathroom. The good news is that I count that dash as two calisthenics, as in exercise. I figure any time you move your feet, you’re exercising. That romp to the sliding glass door probably burned one-one hundredth of a calorie, don’t you think?
At the window, I still can’t read the label. Grrr! “Where are my glasses?” I shout, as I do approximately every 13. 27 seconds of my life, or so it seems to Bruce, my husband. “If you’d only get one of those string-things so you can hang your glasses around your neck…” he says. That’s a blog for another day. After finding my lost lenses in the dog’s bed, yet another blog, I put them on, adjusting them just so because one of the temple arms ( I looked that up) is missing. Clarifying what is soaking into my brain at this point, I say a quick prayer of thanks that the substance I so generously applied to my scalp is not toilet bowl cleaner, but my granddaughter’s shampoo for curly hair!
Having zero time to re-wash and dry my hair, I do what any former Girl Scout does. I apply copious amounts of glitter body powder to absorb the oil from the shampoo. A fast brush through, a quick goodbye kiss to Bruce, who looks at me in his usual way when I do unusual things, and I am out the door, the evidence of my latest Lucy moment apparent in my trail of white dust.
Home again, in the comfort of my Story Central corner, I think back, happy no one was hateful enough to comment on my flat, dull, except for the sparkles, ten shades lighter powdered gray hair. People can be so nice, can’t they?
