- So, while it pains me to reveal the sordid course of events I experienced today, my hope is that even just one person could be saved from falling victim to my same demise. It all started about a week and a half ago with an itch. No! I don’t mean that kind of itch. Even I draw the line when it comes to blogging about feminine irritation such as that. No, I meant scalp itch. It started slowly, but really began bugging me. I felt like a bad actress on the Scalpicin commercial, but I did really need to “drop the itch.” (No, I’m not a paid spokeswoman.) I had recently switched conditioners. I have been using the same kind for over a decade, without faltering from my favorite, so I don’t know what convinced me to change. I should have listened to my Grandma’s voice, “Don’t fix it if it ain’t broken.” I, instead, must have been influenced by subtle, propaganda hidden in the shampoo product commercial on Nick at Night. I called a beautician friend, who suggested coconut oil to hydrate my scalp. And so it began.
- I wasn’t sure whether to find it in the cooking aisle or beauty aisle, but while grabbing my old, trusted conditioner, I ran across a container of Coconut oil. Actually, it was a tub.
It was called “Blue Magic”. I am now all too well aware of its hidden meaning name. The “blue” is the description for your mood after having used said product. “Magic” is what is required to remove it from your hair. I sat in the tub with Chloe, fully prepared to try out a coconut oil treatment for my dry scalp. As I opened the tub, I was surprised that the product so closely resembled Crisco. It smelled like a tropical drink, so surely it couldn’t be too bad. I began to gather globs of the white, greasy matter and apply it to my head. It seemed to disappear instantly when it was rubbed into my dry hair. So, naturally, I continued to generously apply more. I now realize this was probably a bad idea. Chloe grabbed a handful and began to rub it across her body. I could see the water beading up on it, and thought she resembled an ocean channel swimmer greasing up before the plunge into the deep. What was this stuff, whale blubber? With only mild concern at this point, I ducked my head to rinse. I worked my hands through my hair under the water. When I came up I noticed it still felt, well, greasy. I thought of using a cup to pour water over my head, but noticed the film in the bath water. Hmmm. Even my face felt greasy. I looked over at Chloe floating in a mixture that looked like what my Granny use to keep in a tin can on the stove to cook with. Great. I had submitted my child to my stupidity.
3. I suggested we shower. Naturally, the baby woke about this time. I walked into the nursery to retrieve her. No worries of dripping water on the carpet. My body was like a Rain X windshield, and water sufficiently rolled off me into the bath as I exited. I set the baby down with her music maker in the hallway in front of the bathroom door, and rushed to shower with the curtain half-way open. I soaped us off, and stood under the spray for a little while letting it run through my hair. That should do it! I got out and decided to blow dry my hair while the baby remained self-entertained. I dried and dried. My bathroom outlet won’t accommodate my dryer, so I use an extension cord from the hall. Fancy, I know. The baby was determined to eat the cord. Calm down, I didn’t let her. Instead I gave her the first thing I saw on the sink, a plastic infant medicine dropper. I dried and dried. Chloe came up and stole the medicine dropper because she said it was her favorite thing ever. I traipsed, still naked, to the kitchen for another dropper. I passed Chloe bouncing, naked as well, on a sofa cushion with her arm raised in victory, holding her medicine dropper prize. At this point, I realized my hair wasn’t going to dry. I looked at the jar and saw it was made in Olive Branch, MS. Intriguing. I don’t recall seeing a coconut plantation when I drove through there. Perhaps it had more oil than coconut.
My hair was a stiff, greasy mess. I knew if I put a paper towel on my crown, it would come back looking like the one my fried pork chops sit on. I knew I needed to shower again. I considered using Dawn dish soap. It gets crude oil off of baby ducks, after all. In the end, I chose to use regular shampoo. After three lathers, my hands were still running through my mane like I was waxing a surf board. I even used my husband’s shampoo. It has menthol and caffeine in it. I can’t explain to you what that concoction felt like on my scull, nor how it smelled when mixed with coconut, but I may market it as a hangover cure. The second time around, my hair dried a little easier. A little, anyway. After the second run, I no longer resembled Michael Jackson on the cover of his “Bad” album. Instead I resembled a child vying for a part in the broadway remake of Oliver Twist. All I needed was the tattered rags to complete my look.
It ended up not being too bad. I wrung the excess oil from my tresses and was able to manufacture an alternative fuel source that we placed in the van tank and let it carry us to the park for a picnic. There was no worry of bugs. The cumulative odor of menthol and coconut served as a repellant.
That is all 🙂
[…] not twenty anymore. I did kneel down onto my knees gingerly careful not to slip on the remains of coconut oil. I gave Him a more appropriate amount of my morning and praised His name. It occurs to me that we […]