I for one will hold the details on Friday's activities here at the World HQ, because we have this lovely dispatch from Donna on her hippie days, and beyond.
Have a great Father's Day tomorrow all, including you, Bill and WC.Both of you get the day off with the ordinary rate of pay....
Today I have for you some cautionary hair tales. No, not pubic hair, we already talked about shaving versus waxing and screaming. Today’s blog is about some things I have learned about Bill from my hair. I know that sounds strange, but give me a chance here.
When I was in my late teens I used what was then a very popular shampoo, Green Herbal Essence. It was the shampoo of the hippies, you could tell because it had the word herbal in the name and psychedelic designs in the advertisements and on the label. All the girls in my dorm used it.
Bill loved the smell of the Herbal Essence in my long dark hair that I kept in that, oh, so fashionable long shag style all the girls had at that time. You see, in those days our attempts to prove our independence and individuality was somehow couched in all looking alike in our frayed jeans, tie-dyed shirts, and sandals along with flowers in the long hair of both males and females (yes, Bill had long hair, too) and granny glasses, can’t forget those...
But, back to the Herbal Essence story. Many years later I spotted a bottle of that product in a dollar store, probably left over from the 1970s. I was so pleased! I could only imagine how excited Bill would be to have that aroma bring back memories of our hippie days and our wild hippie sexiness. As soon as I got home I washed my hair, and then washed it again just to be certain the aroma would be wafting to my beloved when he arrived home.
When our teens got home from school and started sniffing the air and asking what that stink was in the house, I should have taken that as a hint, but no. Instead, I told them some (non-sexy) stories of our hippie days, they always hated those stories, and as their eyes glazed over I ended my little talk by sharing the story of finding the special shampoo and how I hoped this would remind their father of those happy hippy times. Whether from the aroma of the shampoo or as a result of my stories, the kids rushed to tell me they had plans for dinner and sleepovers with friends or relatives or anyplace but home. Perfect!
When Bill arrived home I cuddled up next to him with my head in a position that assured he would get a snoot full of the aroma of my hair. Well, he did get a snoot full, and then he sneezed several times. He asked what the heck was in my hair and I, in return, still hoping against hope that he would remember, asked him whether that aroma brought anything to mind. He sniffed again, a bit less enthusiastically this time, shook his head, and said those romantic words that have stayed with me all these years, “It sure does, it smells like the flea shampoo we use on Ruffy (our golden retriever). What in the world is that stuff?”
I threw out the shampoo and the incident has become a recurring joke in our house. For many years when something smelled bad, Bill or the kids would ask whether I was trying to take Bill back to his hippy days with the Herbal Essence again.
And now I continue with another tale, more cautionary than the first, that begins with these words of wisdom: Should you notice that your partner seems to be admiring blondes on the computer screen more than brunettes, and you are a brunette, do not rush out to change your hair color without speaking to your partner about the situation.
When I decided that maybe Bill would be turned on if I would go blonde, I called my sister. She is one of those women who has a way with her hair and has been coloring her hair since she was a teenager. I called to ask what I needed to buy to take my hair from its natural dark brown to blonde. She was quite insistent that I should not go blonde, saying it would look like hell. Yes, those were her exact words. Knowing me well, she figured I would do it anyway so she told me to sit tight, she was on her way to pick me up and we were going wig shopping.
We piled into her car, taking along my then teenage daughter. Our daughter is autistic and seldom sees the world from a cheery standpoint, but she is unerring in speaking the truth as she sees it. If you want an honest opinion, she’s your gal. My sister insisted that my daughter would be the judge on how I looked as a blonde because we both knew she wouldn’t pull any punches, and how right my sister was. We went to a high end wig shop where I tried on all shades of blonde wigs. My daughter’s eyes rolled back in her head, she started snapping out the words, “No, no, hell no!” What a terrific time we had, except for that part where I was laughing so hard I almost wet my pants. Even the sales lady laughed until she had to sit down. My sister had been right all along. People with my coloring do look like hell with blonde hair. So I remained a brunette.
After dinner that night I told Bill about my attempt to look more like the women he had been looking at on the computer screen. He just looked at me for a minute and raised one eyebrow. He said that he loved my dark hair and that it wasn’t the blonde hair he was examining on the screen, it was the boobs. He said that I set the standard for big boobs for him and he enjoyed looking at them on the screen and was amazed to see how many are now fake.The moral of the story here is ask, don’t assume. Or at least that’s what Bill had me repeat as he spanked and spanked my bottom that night for almost going blonde.
