are hysterical and Michael looks pleased. He is the master of the crazy bedtime story, and the planet Shmalla is
just one in a rich repertoire that includes Tales of Mr. Doody, the hapless retailer whose key resource is cow dung because
he lives on the edge of a dairy farm and it’s free for the taking; and G.I. Jimmy, the dimwitted soldier who whines like a
baby when his mother forgets to put candy in his CARE package.
“And look who has made her grand entrance! It’s the Prime Minister of planet Shmalla, her Royal Curliness, Shminky Shmalla!
All hail Prime Minister Shmalla!”
Michael winks at me and scoots over to make room in the circle. He pats the carpet and gestures for me to sit beside him.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister has her own magical powers. She can change the form and texture of her hair
in the blink of an eye.” I squeeze in between Lucy and Michael, who kisses me on the nose and whispers, “I love you.” If only
I did possess the power to change my hair.
Before bed I slather myself with maximum control gel, pull my kinky coils back into a tight ponytail, and turn away from the
mirror in disgust. My goal is to be asleep before Michael climbs into bed beside me. I suddenly remember that his band is
playing at The Rock Barn this Friday night and I had planned to go. I’d even secured a babysitter. Now I’m wondering if I
should just stay home with the kids and keep my head out of public view.
Evan Delaney loves my hair, nah, nah, nah na nah!
As Annie and I are striding across campus for a quick lunch we pass Evan on the crooked slate path that bisects the grassy
courtyard. Evan is holding his briefcase with one hand, pointing at his head with the other.
“I like it,” he calls out. “Your hair. Very pretty.”
Already I can feel the blood in my cheeks. “Thanks,” I say, bashfully. I move toward him, pulled along by a force not unlike
undertow.
“It really is quite fetching.” He looks at my hair approvingly, then he steals a glance at the rest of me.
I resist the urge to say: You really think so? You mean, you don’t think it was a stupid mistake? You haven’t lost your appetite?
I’m not a complete idiot for doing this to myself? I don’t look like one of the Three Stooges? You don’t think I should just
leave well enough alone? Are you absolutely positive?
“Thanks,” I say.
“So, I’ll see you in a few weeks, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be there,” I say. Annie and I continue on our way, my fingertips twitching as the thrill of Evan’s attention ricochets
through me.
“Who
was
that?” Annie asks, turning around and craning her neck for another look.
“Who?”
“
Him.
That guy? The good-looking one? The one who likes your hair?”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s Evan Delaney. He’s a medievalist.”
“Uh-huh.” Annie is staring at me, smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“He likes you.”
“He does not.” I pause. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. And he’s a hunk.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Bullshit.”
I watch my reflection in a window as we pass Volk Hall and admire the Woman Formerly Known as Bland. What was the word he
used? Oh, yes.
Fetching.
Chapter SIX
M ay God bestow His beneficence upon the inventor of spandex. These pants make me feel slim and leggy. The pink sleeveless top,
on the other hand, exposes too much armpit flubber so I’ve switched to a gray cotton T-shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves,
another garment design concept deserving praise and gratitude. I dig out a pair of black high-heeled sandals bought for a
wedding but rarely worn because they give me vertigo. I give myself the unabridged makeup application normally reserved for
job interviews, college reunions, and first dates: green tinted concealer for emergent zits, yellow for dark circles, moisturizing
foundation followed up with a mineral-based loose powder application. Brow
just one in a rich repertoire that includes Tales of Mr. Doody, the hapless retailer whose key resource is cow dung because
he lives on the edge of a dairy farm and it’s free for the taking; and G.I. Jimmy, the dimwitted soldier who whines like a
baby when his mother forgets to put candy in his CARE package.
“And look who has made her grand entrance! It’s the Prime Minister of planet Shmalla, her Royal Curliness, Shminky Shmalla!
All hail Prime Minister Shmalla!”
Michael winks at me and scoots over to make room in the circle. He pats the carpet and gestures for me to sit beside him.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister has her own magical powers. She can change the form and texture of her hair
in the blink of an eye.” I squeeze in between Lucy and Michael, who kisses me on the nose and whispers, “I love you.” If only
I did possess the power to change my hair.
Before bed I slather myself with maximum control gel, pull my kinky coils back into a tight ponytail, and turn away from the
mirror in disgust. My goal is to be asleep before Michael climbs into bed beside me. I suddenly remember that his band is
playing at The Rock Barn this Friday night and I had planned to go. I’d even secured a babysitter. Now I’m wondering if I
should just stay home with the kids and keep my head out of public view.
Evan Delaney loves my hair, nah, nah, nah na nah!
As Annie and I are striding across campus for a quick lunch we pass Evan on the crooked slate path that bisects the grassy
courtyard. Evan is holding his briefcase with one hand, pointing at his head with the other.
“I like it,” he calls out. “Your hair. Very pretty.”
Already I can feel the blood in my cheeks. “Thanks,” I say, bashfully. I move toward him, pulled along by a force not unlike
undertow.
“It really is quite fetching.” He looks at my hair approvingly, then he steals a glance at the rest of me.
I resist the urge to say: You really think so? You mean, you don’t think it was a stupid mistake? You haven’t lost your appetite?
I’m not a complete idiot for doing this to myself? I don’t look like one of the Three Stooges? You don’t think I should just
leave well enough alone? Are you absolutely positive?
“Thanks,” I say.
“So, I’ll see you in a few weeks, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be there,” I say. Annie and I continue on our way, my fingertips twitching as the thrill of Evan’s attention ricochets
through me.
“Who
was
that?” Annie asks, turning around and craning her neck for another look.
“Who?”
“
Him.
That guy? The good-looking one? The one who likes your hair?”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s Evan Delaney. He’s a medievalist.”
“Uh-huh.” Annie is staring at me, smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“He likes you.”
“He does not.” I pause. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. And he’s a hunk.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Bullshit.”
I watch my reflection in a window as we pass Volk Hall and admire the Woman Formerly Known as Bland. What was the word he
used? Oh, yes.
Fetching.
Chapter SIX
M ay God bestow His beneficence upon the inventor of spandex. These pants make me feel slim and leggy. The pink sleeveless top,
on the other hand, exposes too much armpit flubber so I’ve switched to a gray cotton T-shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves,
another garment design concept deserving praise and gratitude. I dig out a pair of black high-heeled sandals bought for a
wedding but rarely worn because they give me vertigo. I give myself the unabridged makeup application normally reserved for
job interviews, college reunions, and first dates: green tinted concealer for emergent zits, yellow for dark circles, moisturizing
foundation followed up with a mineral-based loose powder application. Brow
Similar Books
