What is 20 inches long, domesticated, brown, and weighs about 1.5-4 lbs.?
A ferret? Yes!
The clump of hair from the shower drain I unclogged? Yes!
Writing about hair clumps in the shower drain has become “a thing.” I have written about hair clumps twice before. Once, I wrote a poem about the new pet (ha!) that was the size of a hamster. Then, I wrote about an even bigger clump I named Hairy.
Guess it’s been eight months since I last cleaned out the drain, because this time, the hair clump was the length of a ferret. From its head to its tail. Ew!
Fortunately, we come from a strong lineage of thick and ever-abundant hair. Stay tuned for the drain reveal at Christmas! Pass the shampoo…
After a fun day of snow tubing, I took my kids to dinner at one of the restaurants in the tiny mountain town. Local flavor. Tucked into a corner, in the lodge restaurant, it was cozy. Our waiter sported a long, bushy, dangly moustache. The kind that made you do a double take.
Burgers, fries, salad. Normal fare. But we were starving, so it hit the spot.
Until. We. Discovered. A. Hair. In. My. Daughter’s. Burger.
Where was our hairy waiter? Nowhere. I searched out the cashier and told her, “Excuse me, there was a hair in my daughter’s hamburger.”
She looked at me and questioned, “Oh really? How long was it?” She directed the question to my daughter. As if. We were lying.
WTH? How long? Twelve inches. Nine inches. Four inches. One inch. Half an inch. Does it matter? When it comes to hair in food, size doesn’t matter. A hair is a hair is a hair.
My daughter held out her hands about four inches apart, “It was like this,” she described.
Net net. We weren’t charged for her burger. And oh by the way, how about a hair net for that ‘stache?
This made me think of a little hair on a little can of Coke in the not-so-little Anita Hill vs. Clarence Thomas sexual harassment case. Says Anita Hill: “Who has put pubic hair on my Coke?”
While at the hair salon getting my hair trimmed, highlighted, and glossed, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. You know the part, where she goes to the land of Oz the second time, and gets primped and fluffed?
Except my hair actually looked more like the lion. When the hairdresser combed it out, pulling out the curls, I was looking sorta crazy.
I admit, it’s always a little uncomfortable for me to be in the limelight. Either I make conversation or I stare into the mirror. But I sorta get sick of staring at myself. I tend to over-examine. How I applied my lipstick in a hurry and notice that it is askew. How my eyebrows need a little shaping. How I’m looking a little tired.
It’s always something.
But she doesn’t call attention to my imperfections. She sees plenty, I’m sure.
It’s the one hour and a half where I can just sit. And be taken care of. “Would you like some tea?”
When the hairdresser washes my hair, it’s my favorite part. It’s just not the same when I do it myself. I lather and scrub. Always racing the clock. Leaving the conditioner in while shaving. Always multitasking.
But the hairdresser? She takes her time. She massages. She uses plenty of hot water. This time around, I was so relaxed that I even dozed off for a few minutes!
After I was pampered and relaxed, instead of Dorothy, I was the woman in those stupid Calgon commercials. Remember those?
“The traffic. The boss. The baby. The dog…Calgon, take me away!”
This woman is losing it! Then cut to her in her tub of bubbles, oohing and aahing, relaxed and carefree.
That was me, but in the salon chair…Aveda, take me away!
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