The static cling is killing me.
My hair has left my shoulders and is free-floating up and away from my head in a Bride-of-Frankenstein fashion that, honestly, actually seems to work for me in a that-woman-looks-like-she’s-been-through-a-lot kind of way; the shocks coming off the bathroom light switch in particular are visible to the neighbors; and I think I’ve got a cat stuck in the inside of my yoga pants.
I hear you; and sure, I could buy a humidifier. But then how would I style my hair?
I wasn’t always anti-static. I remember, as a child, walking around the house, shuffling my little feet to build it up just so I could walk up to my brother and touch him on the ear: zzzzzzzzzap!
He had it coming. You’ll have to trust me about that. I know it, he knows it, we all know it: little brothers everywhere, at some point, have it coming.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. The static.
Even the cats have fallen prey to the dry air, particularly Dolly Gee Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers), whose long Siamese-cum-rabbit-hair coat has taken on a rather Rod-Stewart look of late.
It’s attractive until she opens her little semi-toothless mouth. That cat can’t sing for shit.
It’s not like I’ve totally given up on regaining a static-free existence. I apply lotion almost continually (not to the cat). I smooth my traitor-ish hair into compliance by licking my fingers and pulling the escapees down to join the originally intended ‘do. I’m thinking of forming a support group for the chronically dry, for those tired of the repeated shocks of this high-flyin’ Minnesota lifestyle.
I’m gonna hang in there – for another four, maybe five months, while waiting for Spring – I’m gonna hang in there. For Minnesota. For the rights and dignity of those without humidity.
For you. I’m gonna do it for you.
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