Sometimes, after the nightly bath, the routine picking up my book out of the Calgon take me away soft and sweet smelling water, the toweling off...me AND the book, I go and lay on my bed and wonder why it seems such an effort to get back up and comb my hair. I want to let it dry as it wishes. I know I would indeed regret foregoing this procedure. I also know for a fact that if I did not comb my fine as frog fur hair, that would be the night one of my kids would have to go to the ER with abdominal pain, or an unexpected guest would arrive, or the house would burst into flames and I would have to be evacuated by the firemen, who would all be flabbergasted at my limp, yet wild locks of mousy brown. I want only to lie here on my rumpled quilt with the fan blowing on high, with a nice beer in my hand and some music playing and my hair wet and wild and standing on end.
Eventually though, I'll waddle my lazy self into the bathroom, hunt down a brush, take care of the feathers I call hair, and then go kiss the boys goodnight. My radio doesn't work so nix the music. I'm too tired for beer so I guess I'll brush my snags and hit the hay.