I get unreasonably annoyed when I am finger-combing my hair (or combing or brushing it at all) and I hit a snag. It seems like the most surprising, hurtful annoyance. Especially when I have already brushed my hair five times. How are there more tangles??? I guess I am still tender-headed. I used to run away from my mother screaming when she would brush my hair when I was a child. At least, when I thought I could get away with it. We have a picture of my paternal grandfather comforting me after I ran from my mom and the brush. I still probably got spanked, which shows how much I hated having my long, tangled hair brushed. I would get so fed up I was willing to risk a spanking.

Eventually, I started brushing my own hair and I realized why it was so hard for my mom. It was soooo long and thick. Plus, my short, little arms couldn’t reach the bottom of my hair with the brush. My mom noticed too late one morning when dropping me off at school that the bottom half of my hair was still tangled. She couldn’t catch me in time. I was mortified when I found out. My mortification remained unsurpassed until she let me go off to school with my fly unzipped on picture day in 8th grade. And who was it who noticed my fly was unzipped and started laughing uncontrollably? Oh, yes. My ex-boyfriend. Ever since that day, I have compulsively checked my fly, even when there is no chance of it being unzipped. In fact, it took me awhile to stop checking my maternity jeans, even though they have no fly.

I have finally let go of my resentment towards my mother for not making sure I was properly attired before school twice in the thirteen years during which I attended school living under her roof.  However, the paranoia will last forever.

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