Turn Your Hair On

My hair is naturally curly . Unfortunately, I didn't inherit my mom's red (and could therefore never be Charlie Brown's unrequited love), but for years I dyed it many many shades of red, which is how I got the nickname "Red" from my brother. Either that or it was a derivative of "Rhet", short for "Rhetoric", which was a nickname a young man called Pee Wee (not the famous one) gave me. Apparently Pee Wee thought I used unnecessarily grandiose vocabulary to pontificate on matters best illuminated with elucidated prose. Yeah, I had to look up half of those words, Pee Wee, to make sure I was using them correctly. That's what Genessee Cream Ale and Police Academy movies will do to you.

Anyways, my hair is naturally curly and the humid weather's got it springing up like pea tendrils in a hothouse. Tonight at bedtime I had pulled my hair up out of my eyes so I could apply the butt paste , diaper and PJs to my son's hiney in the correct order. Tommy looked at me weird for a minute, pointed and said, "On. On, Mommy!"

I looked over my shoulder and said, "What, on? Fan on? The fan is on, Tommy."

He pointed at me and said more emphatically, "ON, Mommy!"

Tommy can be a very clear communicator, particularly if he wants to play outside or eat a cookie, but I was at a loss with this request.

"What do you want on, Tommy?"

He paused for a minute and squinched up his eyes, and I swear could hear the little clogs turning and turning until finally CLICK.

"Turn hair ON, Mommy."

"You want Mommy to turn her hair on?"

Yes." His tone connoted, "Duh." He may have actually rolled his eyes at me.

I loosened my Kevlar/Nomex-insulated ponytail holder, unleashing an arc flash of fiery (although much more brown than red), spiral-curled tresses.

Tommy laughed at Mommy's silly head.


Random
Morrissey may hate Pittsburgh, but I still love him. Here he is on Letterman.




Also
New Editors album = awesome.