One dollop of hair gel and a liberal dose of freezing spray for good measure and Mr. T looks like this:
He's extremely pleased with himself and I imagine it's only a matter of time before he starts worrying about the clothes to go with his cool new do. Sigh. But at least we staved off a full shave for now--that is, until 5th grade when he starts getting a five 'o clock shadow. (A moment of silence for our ancestor Sasquatch.)
Naturally all this hair-spiking manifested itself into classic Monkey See-Monkey Do behavior.
I fear it will be almost as awful as those girl-mothers who have to find matching hair bands and barrettes for each outfit every morning. Only instead of braiding or combing out locks for ponytails, I'll be up to my elbows in Dippity Do slicking up the spikes.
Speaking of spikes, which rhymes with strikes, tonight is bowling night. (groan at my weak segue) Mr. D and I are in a couples league every other Friday night in the winter months--it's what passes for Date Night in the North Woods. We bowl at a supper club with 6 lanes in the rear of the bar area--a rare combination of fine dining, cocktails and pin setting found only in the Badger State.
My bowling name is "Jan." I found a ball at a thrift shop when we signed up for the league five years ago--a ball perfectly weighted with holes just the right size for my fingers and thumb. I was dropping off boxes of clothes and household items when I saw the display of balls and bowling bags on my way out of the thrift store. The maroon Brunswick ball fit me like a glass slipper custom made by a fairy godmother. In gold letters was etched the name "Jan."
"How much are the balls?" I asked the clerk.
Since I had come to the thrift shop with the sole intention of dropping, not shopping, I had to go out to my car and scrabble for loose change.
A quarter, a dime and three nickels later, Jan was mine. In the words of the immortal Ty Webb, ("Be the ball, Danny"), I AM Jan. Jan bowls a 138 average, wears white bowling shoes and drinks one and one half pints of a microbrewed porter ale every other Friday night during the long winter months in Northeast Wisconsin. I believe the original Jan, wherever she might be, would be glad to hear of her ball's extended life.