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The Mom adores the idea of having company when she’s doing things. Whichever things really, it kind of doesn’t matter, she just likes to have someone around to talk to and trade jokes with. Which I get, it’s just that I rather prefer the voices in my own head because I write their dialogue too and it goes where I want it to – with The Mom you can run down a side tangent and never recover from it.

Anyhow, with no small amount of glee she recently reported that she and Crazy D would be getting their hair done together. Which is great news on many levels, not the least of which is that now that he’s done this I might get let off the hook for it. I am renowned in my family for disliking having my hair cut. I don’t like the entire procedure: the washing, the combing (especailly the combing and brushing), the generally touching, and fussing, and then the drying, and more fussing, and then products, and then admonishments about how dry my hair is or how knotted it is or any number of other things. In my defence, I always announce that I want nothing more than my hair to be cut and dried. Dried not styled. And that I swim. And still.

I think The Mom, in the fantasy life she envisions for herself, and by extension us, has an episode in it where we three girls go together to the salon and do girl things like talk about periods and boys and then have a check glass of champers.

We did this for or with her once, me and L’il Sis. We know she likes her make up and so once, back when I still lived in Toronto, we found a nice place and booked her in for a fancy-ing up with a make up refresh.

She was beyond delighted. We went with her, L’il Sis and I having previously sussed out the nearby coffee shop situation imagining that we would be there for a few hours. What we did not count on was the lady wanting to do make-up on us. Now, L’il Sis is much better than me and can apply – if necessary – some basic make-up. I can just about do mascara and some times lipstick but it makes me feel funny so I usually forego it and shout at anyone who complains: this is what my face looks like so deal with it.

Anyhow, this one time The Mom was so thrilled at the prospect that we stayed with her and L’il Sis I believe took a small one for the team and let them fuss over her.

Had I only known that Crazy D could’ve been commandeered for this job my life would’ve been made so much easier so long ago. I can picture him having a rather grand time in the salon, being fussed over by people being a bit camp and silly, picking on The Mom gently, making bad jokes, and probably as it’s Christmas, drinking a bit of whisky on the side.

I have been with The Mom once to her salon because I was in desperate need of a trim, but which I mean my back of the neck beard was becoming Amish in proportions and since the idea of The Mom running a razor over it filled me with visions of a trip to the hospital I tagged along with her. It was too much though. The people there know way too much about me without having ever met me, and it was too much – too loud, too smelly, too much spray.

So I’m glad The Mom’s found herself a new haircuts buddy. Because that means it’s off my list of things to do. I’d happily deal with the internet and computer and being on hold to whichever idiot is down the line trying not hard enough to fix the thing, but a salon full of women wanting to do girl talking? Lord save me.

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