My senior level writing class reads an essay written about a father. One of the stories she tells is when she is around 6 or 7, and combs her father's hair while he is reading. She puts in pink barrette's and tiny ponytails all over his hair. He leaves to pick up her older sister from work, forgetting he has all that in his hair, and mortifies the older sister. I always smile and chuckle when we read that story.
Now I have my own version.
Bobby loves to have his hair combed. He could sit for hours while they comb and style his hair. Frequently, they get tired of it before he does. Last night, they worked hard combing his hair, getting it just right. They thought he was the best looking daddy around. (I agree.)
An hour or two later, after the girls are in bed but not asleep, he says he is running to the store to get something. I look up, see the hair. I bite back a smile, wondering if he remembers. He grabs his keys, right in front of the mirror, then he's gone.
When he came back in the door, I could tell he now remembered.
At least barrettes weren't involved.
No comments:
Post a Comment