So, Jackson Wynn and I wrestled today. Then we ran out and picked up John Campbell from school. I didn't think to have a once over before heading out. Neither of my kids told me I had bedhead, or couch hair (as was the term in my college years). Or, freshley, somewordthatstartswithFinthepassedtensethatIcan'tputhere. That term was also used in college.
It looked bad. And I had a barrette in back, to hold all the awfulness in place. My hair really did look like a stump full of grandaddys (thanks, Mom, for that memory!) piled up on top of my head. Neither boy said anything. I reached up to scratch my head and found this pile of hair up there, went to look in the mirror and was horrified. How long had I been like this? Did I actually leave the house like this? Good heavens, I went by the library...I drove through the car riders line. I drove through the pharmacy! Maybe it happened after I got home, but the wrestling happened before we left. None of the three men in this house would tell me if my hair were on fire, much less out of place. The two younger boys will mention, "You look nice, Mama." when I'm wearing something out of the ordinary. The older one grunts occasionally.
Yet, when John Campbell puts his Batman mask on me a few minutes ago, he takes pains to get my hair out of the way and get it up to his standards, lest I disrespect the cowl.
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