The End.
OK, fine. The drastic measure was chopping off about nine inches of Daughter 1's hair. The drastic time was a Sunday morning where she'd been "grounded" from church, and I was zoned out on Lortab, and the hairbrush was MWA - Missing Without Action. Let me start from the beginning.
It was a typical Sunday morning. We were rushing around, late of course, and Daughter 1 was melting down just as fast as a slushy on an August afternoon. I and the other two members of our family who were not melting were completely ready and seated in the living room waiting on Daughter 1 to just brush her hair already.
The trouble was that the brush - HER brush - was missing. She is the only one who uses it. She is the only one who has ever used it. She was the last person who used it because she is the only user of said brush. However, it somehow became everyone elses fault that she couldn't find her brush. She wouldn't use my brush. She wouldn't use her sister's brush. She would only use her brush and it was gone.
"Probably some burglar came in, walked past the Mac, past the flat screen, past the ipods and Kindle Fires and took just your brush," I said as I banged my head against the arm of the couch.
"Do you think so, Momma? Should we call the cops?" she asked. Yes, it was just that kind of morning.
When she wouldn't brush her hair, and when she wouldn't use anyone else's brush to brush her hair, we told her to forget about it. The Dad and Daughter 2 would go to church and out to lunch without her. If she couldn't get her rear in gear, her rear would be left. She plopped on the couch
Then my kidney began spasming because I had just had life-altering surgery. Since I wasn't going anyway thanks to my unbrushed daughter, I popped a Lortab and took to bed with my heating pad. An hour (or three) later, Daughter 1 woke me up.
"Momma," she whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't find my brush, and I didn't get ready for church on time. I think if I got my hair cut, it would help."
"It would help?" I grumbled.
"It would help," she repeated, "because I could just use my fingers to brush my hair." So far it was making sense. "And I already made an appointment."
So, I took my glazed-over eyes and drove her to the mall where she had nine-inches cut off of her hair as I slept under a turned-off hair dryer while the receptionist would jiggle my foot every once in a while and say, "You doin' OK?" and I would uncross my eyes, mumble incoherent ramblings about Fox News and nod.
After an hour and half (I'm not kidding), I drove home - or flew on the back of winged pigs, I'm not sure - and I stumbled into the house, with a fresh-headed Daughter 1. She twirled through the living room and I plopped into the recliner.
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| That cute basket for the brushes in the bathroom? What a waste when you have a fireplace mantle. |
"Ummm, Momma?" she whispered, "Don't be mad." This means that a tiny part of me will be mad. "I found my brush. It was on the mantle where I put it last week." First off, this meant that she was, indeed the last one with the brush and secondly, this meant she hadn't brushed her hair in a week.
In more ways than one, Lortab was my friend. It was a friend to Daughter 1 as well on that day...
