The Hair in the Box

So, okay, the background story on this is that my brother just came for two days to help weed whack the back property, and so my mother sent me a few things with him. These included pore cream (since she noticed my skin was “looking a little rugged”) and two hairpieces in a plastic box that she used to wear when she was younger (like, in the 60’s when I was born). Her suggestion was that I might like to dye my hair to match one of them since the lighter one was actually my natural hair colour.

“Um, my hair is already that colour, Mum.”

“Aren’t you grey now?”

“Nooo, just a little white at the temples, but hey I’m 52.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that. I would have had to have given birth when I was six.”

I pointed out that she might just not remember because she has always told me that she wasn’t really there since the doctors gave her such good drugs. She pretty much called in my birth. Or perhaps ordered me from a catalogue. Whatever the case, she doesn’t actually remember giving birth to me. Perhaps it was all a mistake and I really belong to a nice elderly lady who cleans houses in Bogota.

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