Please Don't Fuck With The Mop

So, I've really [re]-learned to listen to my women's intuition- no holds barred.Â1

Remember when you were seven or so...I do. All was pristine in my nature...before ego erupted, fucking everything up and making the simplest goddamn things complex.Â2

I call it, "The Journey Back To Seven."3

Granted, my gut sense, intuition or sixth sense...whatever you want to call it.....says some things to me that: freak me out, scare me, amuse me, confuse me.Â4

Sometimes I just think WTF???????ÂAnd I'm like, "Really."Â5

But, I'll tell you...I'm done with not listening, even when it seems kooky as fuck....i just obey ...it is a higher knowing that sense in me. I am 100% sure of this. It is fact.6

So, one day several weeks ago...I went in to get a highlight touch up in San Rafael. I hate getting my hair done. I hate sitting still and even more so I detest hairdoers fucking with my mop. I am ridiculously sensitive headed....it's uncanny really...freakish even. Shit, I remember the episodes between my mother and I over the combing of my mop. Oh it was no joke, i tell you, no joke at all. First off I was a freakish kid in any case, eccentric and magical...quirky as fuck. I used to lose my shoes, my housekeys, my jackets...things meant nothing to me...adventure meant EVERYTHING. I mean I would forget I had feet unless something happened to make me aware of them....hence, I would return home after a full day of pure adventure and wild imagination and my mother would look at me horrified. I would look at her like, "what?" She'd say A****r M****e A*** [full name to signify her horror and my immurement in shit/trouble] "WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES!?!?" She would exclaim, stretching out the and putting a sharp intensity on the word 'where'. I'd stare blankly. Pffft. Like I know. It was only then that I realized I didn't have my shoes......ah shit...here we go again....7

Anyway, I hated to have my hair fucked with let alone, combed. And my mother... was a hairdresser.....ÂOh the wars.Â8

I was my dad's favorite....we were similar...quirky genius absent-minded professor/scientist types but I was far more evil and mischievous...breathing a rarified air of nobility and moral turpitude all at once. Â....um, seriously though. So, he would gently brush my hair sometimes and it was nice. My mom was a wild gypsy with a strong arm to boot. Good God. When she came at me with a brush I was like AHHHHHHHH!!!!! inside scream like you'd hear in a horror flick. My blood would run cold and my mouth ran ferociously fast with talkin....as I backed away. "Please No!!!! Please...please, please, please, no....No, no, no, no, no, nooooooooooooooooooooh." I would begin on reflex...no thought involved in all of that pleading. lol9

She'd say,ÂA***** M****e A***Â[full name] you have not brushed your hair in two days!!!!10

"No, no, no, no, no....it's only been like one. I swear."11

I'd continue backing away and she would press forward as if she were trying to catch a butterfly in a net. Then, she'd let me know she was going to brush my hair [ie--get me]. I'd say, "But wait! Dad can do it! Dad doesn't hurt my head." As it turns out, I found out after I was an adult that my day wasn't really efficiently brushing my hair. lol. My mom said that my hair would still look like a rat's nest. lol. In any case, I honestly thought she was trying to kill me with the hairbrushing. I wondered why she was so evil and cruel, and insistent on torturing me so horrendously.12

I think the all time....well one of them...one of my epic memories of the hair war ordeal...We went to visit my father's parents in Yearrington, Nevada. I need to check the spelling of that but Yearington was quite literally in the middle of the desert...in the middle of nowhere. They moved out to the desertÂfor my grandpa's emphysema---to prolong his life and help him breathe easier. What a cool place for us crazy kids! It was so exotic. I remember the fascination....all of the fascinating details....being sprayed down in the morning with a mosquito repellent...always watching for scorpions so as not to step on them....and best of all, taking full advantage of not brushing my hair. My mom and my dad's mom weren't exactly fans of one another. lol. [She referred to my mom as my dad's "gypsy bitch." and my mom called her the b word too].Â13

So, I knew I could just really push the envelope and evade my mother with her Mexican-Indian SUPERGROOMING instincts to have spit-shined kids. Ha Ha! Not this one......lol....Moguly Wild Child....She didn't want a scene and it always was one with me and my mop.14

Finally.....I think I got off the hook for like FIVE WHOLE FREAKING DAYS AND NIGHTS....WOW.....An all time record. It was bliss. But then.....ah shit...the fateful coming towards me with the anouncement and steading advancement in my general direction. "A****, it's time to brush your hair....." Then the usual song and dance preceeded. I knew she was right this time....it really had been a long time, even in my estimation BUT, because of this I also knew that it was gonna be the hairbrushing of the decade...oh pain...oh god. Oh shit. I'm SOOOOOOO gonna get it.Â15

I was scared shitless. Then, as she lunged for me....i didn't mean to but I fuckin took off running! I thought, "Oh God, now I'm gonna get it even more for running. Fuck. Shit." ...More fear filled me and I couldn't stop myself from running. lol. She chased after me. . It was like running from the cops but worse. I knew I had committed a second offense for running. So I ran faster. I remember running as fast as my crazy legs could carry me. Bolting like lightning! I was a fast runner. I won trophies for relay races. lol.Â16

I think when I came to my senses...we had lapped the trailer at least five times around and my mom was like ready to croak. I realized I'd better fucking just turn myself in now....so....yeah. tee hee. owie. We laugh about it now.