Mum and I had a quiet snuggle moment this morning, after wrapping up morning chores. I was supposed to head off for my daily constitutional in the building compound, but I would be about half an earlier than the last few days [although a good deal later overall than I would’ve liked but never mind that]. [What a mess of a sentence. Can’t be bothered to correct now though.]
I was telling her about the myriad cures I had tried to cure my dandruff. Nothing off-the-counter had worked. No drugs, chemicals, ointments, balms, salves, creams, lotions, potions, shampoos, rinses, conditioners, oils, powders, patches, or capsules had made more than a superficial dent. The dandruff came and went as it pleased, and I hated it. Finally last week I tried salt. Not sea salt, not Himalayan pink rock salt, not salt scraped off the bottom of the legs of the endangered sea turtles; just plain ol’ salt. And it worked. The WikiHow article [yes please go ahead and judge me after reading my litany above] said it needed to be done for a week. Today, I’m on my third day, and I see a dramatic difference. In fact, the dandruff has vanished, and I’m continuing on in the hope that it STAYS vanished.
In the middle of this eulogy on the effects of salt on dandruff, I happened to reiterate to mum that it was a recurring problem from childhood. I went further and explained that I put it down squarely to a combination of dry skin and an oily scalp, or in other words, my father’s genes.
This was a bad thing to say.
Why? Because my mother has been feeling slightly aggrieved for the past couple of days, thanks to pain from an infection, and she only needed the smallest spark to ignite a major pet peeve. A pet peeve, I would like to note, I had/have/will have ZERO control over.
I am essentially a copy of my father. Looks-wise, temperament-wise, behaviour-wise, etc. I will assert here that I am far better-behaved than he ever was, and less prone to outbursts overall. But yes, I do look a lot like him, to the extent that photographs taken around the same ages and sizes make us look like twins.
My mum is not particularly thrilled with this. To be fair to her, she did the heavy lifting of bringing me into this world, and to have offspring that is the living spit in every way of her irritating, childish, yet lovable husband is quite insulting, seeing as his part of the proceedings was minimal.
So, this morning, I had to cut short an amazing snuggle, and beat a hasty retreat downstairs because a 20-minute diatribe on “how dare you have only your father’s genes, and all his bad habits too!” was completely unanswerable.