My husband and I were just laughing this morning, when he came in from clearing the driveway, about how wearing a hat atop wet hair and then sweating underneath as you clear the snow sets you up for a bad hair day. As I watched him hurriedly beat his hair into some semblance of submission before he headed off to work, I suddenly remembered a day from my teenage years.
It was one of those hormone-raging teenage days, when a girl simply gets up on the wrong side of the bed. I was grumpy, nothing was right, and I’m sure my attitude had my mother rolling her eyes repeatedly and threatening under her breath to “skin me alive”—her favorite phrase of frustration. I was running late and was running close to not being able to catch the bus to school. I made one last trip to the bathroom and picked up the first gold spray can I found and sprayed my hair one last time—with Lysol.
I walked slowly out of the bathroom, Lysol can in hand, tears streaming down my face.
Mom, in spite of my morning attitude, did exactly the right thing:
“Forget about the bus. Go wash your hair again. I’ll take you to school.”