I did something so unbelievably daft over this weekend, that I absolutely have to document it for posterity. Or pastority. Something, definitely.
It is clear that the rot is seeping into the very darkest and undusted crevices of the lump of grey matter that I laughing refer to as my brain.
I woke up, and realised that I was just in time to not enjoy my customary and oh-so-necessary five-minute snooze if I wanted to shower *and* wash my hair and get myself and my daughter out of the house in time. Bummer. Suckworthy. Aval ein ma la’asot.
So up I get, and begin abluting, and I know all you men (all three of you who bother reading here) will fail to understand the significance of a hairwashing day as opposed to a non-hairwashing day, so I shall enlighten you. Don’t groan, it won’t hurt and it will only take a minute. Being of blonde hair of the natural variety, my hair has a specific period where it can be termed “looking good”. In the winter, this can be anything between 12 and 24 hours straight. In the summer, particularly on a humid day, I can get away with a couple of hours, if confined to air-conditioned surroundings with no respite to allow in the sticky summer air. I have a window of opportunity that presents itself between laying my trusty hairdresser’s model hairdryer to rest, and grabbing my cup of tea and computer bag, and heading out of the door towards the car, which, if I time it right, enables me to retain some semblance of okayness about my hair and thus arrive for work not looking as though I’d taken a post-shower shower, while clothed.
Yes, I am extremely vain. And?
Into the aforementioned window of opportunity, I squeeze making myself breakfast-on-the-go, packing up my computer with all relevant papers and accoutrements, and rousing my 7-going-on-15 year-old daughter from her mattress — usually a feat best achieved when using an industrial spatula — or “schpachtel” as they are known here. Using my innate sense of persuasion, plus the usual hefty bribe, I succeed in my attempts, and she gets up, washed and dressed in a relatively short amount of time. Her brother is thankfully sleeping over at a friends’, greasing the wheels of my morning rituals to the extent that at 7.40 on the dot we are ready to go.
Quietly, I poke my head around the door at my slumbering husband, whose occasional yet thundering snores leave me believing that he’s still asleep. Clearly a far lighter sleeper than I suspected, in response to my tiny whispered “Bye, dear, we’re going..!” he rolls over with all the elegance of a phlegmatic walrus and mumbles “where you going?”
I adopt my best “ke’ilu duh” stance, and raise a sardonic eyebrow at him.
“Well, it’s Sunday, so, you know, I *thought* i’d pop into work. That place where they pay me to show up on a Sunday — remember?”
He rubs the sleep from one eye, and eyebrows back at me. (Dammit. I’ve taught him too well. Bugger.)
A beat, and then:
“It’s Saturday, you daft bint.”
See, the naturally blonde are a logistically challenged species. Not always, not all of us, but I am, and for the rest of my life.