A hairy dust bunny with an attitude has just rolled into the room and now hovers by my leg.
Oh my, this bad boy is the size of an end table. Why can't my dog and two cats hang on to their hair? During our toasty summer they shed over 640 cubic feet of it. I know, 'cause it's stuffed in trash bags out in my garage.
Meanwhile, my four-legged pals continue shedding, on purpose! The hairs loiter in corners and brood over their rejection, then form a gang. Soon a new entity roams the house, gathering strength and size, consuming lost jewelry, dead spiders, and dropped pizza crusts.
This entity is relentless. Riding on summer sweat and winter's static cling, it gloms onto everything. If there's even one itty bitty molecular parking space between two neutrinos, you can be sure a loose hair will zoom in.
How is life in a hair-dominated world? If you live with furry mammals (not counting teens or in-laws), pat yourself on the hairy back for your coping skills, and read on. But if y'all live in a parallel, hair-free universe, kindly pause here, take a big breath, and get the inevitable "Eeeeeeeeew!" out of your system before reading further.
There's nothing quite like rolling out of bed each morning and peering at the area where you had lain - that clean silhouette on a sheet otherwise matted with hair. Like a crime scene, the image is fascinating yet revolting. Thank goodness for bed linens with wild animal scenes - they disguise the slough.
I used to dread climbing into bed at night, groping for that clean spot. Then I bought some nifty mastodon sheets with matching tusk throw pillows. Yes, with creative denial you too can cut the laundry to once a month.
Ever forget a towel when showering? Pet owners know the danger of grabbing one off the door knob. Not until we're driving to work do we spot the hairs, long and shiny, drying on our forearms like blonde toupees. So we fluff the hair into a pile on the passenger seat, plop a hat on it, and boldly finish the commute in the car pool lane.
Hair sneaks into the workplace. While I was on vacation, co-workers called Animal Control to seize my fabric desk chair, and replaced it with a stainless steel bench. Don't people know how slippery steel is when you're covered with hair? Twice I've slid off.
But pet hair teaches humility. I felt jolly damn good about my inter-agency presentation until a colleague pointed out the tufts of black hair on my pantyhose and the nest peeking from under my collar. Big Foot goes corporate.
If hairs can bullseye the space between the lettuce and the mayo of a sandwich, I say who the hell needs Metamucil? Dinner guests with sensitive stomachs may not agree. While company gathered for dinner around the dining room table, I stared in horror at the silk flower centerpiece. Backlit by the setting sun, hundreds of individual hairs dangled from every leaf and petal, waving at us like skinny girls on a parade float. All righty, who wants more fish sticks?
But I drew the line when rogue hair changed my Elvis on velvet into a werewolf in sequined bellbottoms. Nature may abhor a vacuum, but I bought a dandy! My new Le Suc Magnifique model revealed my gray carpet to be…Kelly green!
And after a good vacuuming, the large tan "mohair" sofa and matching ottoman turned out to be a plaid love seat and a stack of Cat Fancy magazines. Huh. I'm seeing a need for file photos.
Was that the doorbell? It's probably my handyman, here to blow insulation - all 640 cubic feet of it - into my attic. Now if I can just squeeze past a second hairball blocking the door…hey, is that my lost earring in there?
Copyright © 2006 Mary Tompsett
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