My Hair Had a Party Last Night

Morning and a ton of snow.

This idea seemed much more brilliant the night before when I was driving.

I hear Scott whistling for dogs to come in and smell coffee perking. Oh, thank God.

A peek at the clock tells me it is 8:30 in the morning. It is hard to tell with the weather doing all that it is doing.

I listen for sounds of the girls.

Who am I kidding? They are teen-aged-sleep-‘til- nooners. I will have a full caffeine buzz cranking before their feet hit the carpet for the first time. I should get up.

Thankfully, Scott has a bathroom in his bedroom. I am sure I have zshzshing to do. I get up and assess the damage.

Fright wig.

A nylon, day-glo Rocky Horror wig would be better. I am somewhere between Joey Heatherton “Come Hither” (http://www.peoplequiz.com/images/bios/joey-heatherton.jp-2222.jpg) and Phyllis Diller “Run Screaming” (http://watchoutfor.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/PhyllisDiller-pic1-main_Full.jpg). I quietly rifle through all the drawers in Scott’s bathroom. He has all the hair accoutrements you would expect a man to have. Some kind of harsh, manly, hair rubber cement and a standard barber-issued black comb.

I am doomed. Between the Addams Family hair do and the mascara smeared into the bags under my eyes, which I could easily tuck into the waistband of my pajama bottoms, I will be lucky if Scott doesn’t pretend to have amnesia and struggle to recall my identity.

Before scrubbing his entire person with a wire brush and some kind of abrasive cleanser.

I am sure the glue and the comb in any combination will leave my head looking more like a tumbleweed than a human appendage. I should sneak into the girls’ bathroom and swipe a dollop of de-frizzing, gravity defying goo.

But with my luck, I’d get busted.

“Hi. I’m Mary. Your Dad’s ummm, friend. From high school. Well, I'm not actually in high school. Obviously. And these are my pajamas. Pleased to meet you. I was just filching some of your overpriced salon quality hair relaxing schmutz that I am sure you paid for yourself with your hard earned babysitting money. Sorry. 'Scuse my appearance. I don’t really have a blood disorder. I am just...really tired. And a little hungover, actually. To be completely truthful. So! Off I go! See you aroud – around your house, I guess. You live here.”

Umm. No.

I opt for a little water and some hand lotion that I find in my purse. The right proportion tames the hair a little and can remove the dark tarry half moons from my bloodshot eye area. Brushing the teeth does wonders for my disposition. So does a little Chapstick Scott has in his drawer of man stuff. Thank God he skis.

As zshzshed as I can get with what survival gear I can find, I pad quietly into the hall and out toward the kitchen hoping to be able to survey the situation before making my presence known.

How naïve. Scott has 3 dogs who smell me coming from a mile away, and not because I had been drinking the night before.

Scott turns with two coffee mugs filled with steaming liquid confidence and his smile is all I need.

Suddenly, I am ready to face the dogs, the girls and the day, fright wig and all.