Hi, I’m mJ from Not a Housekeeper and WC asked me to pinch hit for her today.
I was a clumsy kid.
I was the kid no one wanted on their dodgeball team because it was inevitable that I’d ball one of my own teammates in the back of the head.
I was the kid, when playing volleyball in PE class, who’d serve the ball. And instead of actually smacking the ball over the net, I’d miss the ball held in my hand with such verve and force that I’d flop onto the floor, the ball rolling into an unoccupied corner.
Kids groaned when I was the one left to be chosen for sports teams. I groaned too. I should have felt left out, or sad, but I didn’t, because I knew just as well as they did that I was an absolute disaster in any kind of coordinated team activity. Put me in a pair of ballet slippers, and I was fine. But anything that involved other people? Disaster.
In ninth grade, I went to a private school. We had these grey wool pleated skirts, and white oxford button-down shirts, and maroon cardigan sweaters. We could wear any shoes we wanted, as long as we had on knee socks or tights. I wore penny loafers, or purple Doc Martens. Because I was such a dichotomy, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be punk or prep. It was Jersey, so it didn’t really matter much, as long as I had The Hair.
For some reason, in fifth grade, I decided to cut my hair short. In a kind of funky surfer girl do, with the hair a little longer on one side so I could swing it out of my face as needed. I looked absolutely asinine, because I have thick, curly hair. Thick curly hair needs to be long enough to weight itself down, or it looks like a head of broccoli. And I sure did look like a piece of broccoli.
Since my hair was so ridiculously unruly, I used hairspray. We didn’t have product in those days-AquaNet or Stiff Stuff was as good as it got, so I had both. And used them judiciously. I decided to grow my hair longer, so by the time I was in ninth grade it resembled a mass of bird’s nests rather than actual hair.
My hair grows outward. Not down.
The amount of hairspray I used on any given day didn’t help, nor did the fact that instead of allowing my curls to air dry, I instead hit them with a blow dryer.
It was the end of my ninth grade year, and it was hot. And sticky. And humid. And it was that time of year for the PE fitness tests, which meant an entire week of being outside daily. Does anyone know what thick, curly, hair sprayed hair does at the end of a week of being outside?
It poofs. Significantly. So, on Friday, the last day of PE tests, I used an extra dose of hairspray to counteract the effects of the humidity. Which basically meant that my hair was immobile. A helmet, as it were. My hair wasn’t going anywhere.
I’m on the track, running my mile, when a bee stopped by. The scent of my sticky-sweet hair must have attracted him, because he decided to hang around for awhile. Which I didn’t care for, and responded by swatting and dodging and running crazily. Which the bee didn’t care for, so he responded by attempting to sting me.
And he did. Right in the scalp above my left ear.
And then he died, in my hair. Because I had so much hairspray creating a helmet, that the bee couldn’t fight his way through the jungle to get out and die in peace. Of course, this horrified me, so I was sent to the school nurse, to get the bee out.
She wanted to wash my hair. At school. And I didn’t have any hairspray.
So I told her “no”, went back to PE with a dead bee in my hair, finished out the day, and went home. With a dead bee in my hair.
My parents grounded me from hairspray that month. Took all of it away, and made me go to school with UN-HAIR SPRAYED HAIR. I, of course, sneak-hair sprayed, until one day when I learned the value of air drying.
I still don’t use hairspray, and have an unhealthy fear of bees.
Thanks Annie, for having me hang out at your place today!!
(Thanks mJ, I’m still laughing over this one!)