Brushophobia

Friday, November 2, 2007

Rose was at work all day serving at an American Eagle fashion show. And while she had hopes of bringing back pieces from the runway, Collette felt that the likelihood of Rose confiscating toss-aways at this particular event, was remote. The list of loot from Columns functions was long and unusual: living flower arrangements, helium pirate balloons, frosted cupcakes, chocolate bars wrapped in pink paper and sappy sayings… there was always something new, left behind from parties too tipsy to care.

And while the Frances set his math book on the counter that morning, Linnea took the Puckster into the living room. He sat on the rug while she sang with her choir tape. Puck soon became interested in the musical box and rolled onto his stomach, flailing his arms and stamping his chubby palms into the rug in an effort to propel himself toward it. Linnea distracted him with her giant tub of Halloween candy.

It was, indeed, a super-sized bucket: purple, plastic, and brimming with goodies. Linnea, fortunately, was not terribly fond of Reeses peanut butter cups, Twix bars, or Kit Kat bars, and generously handed them, and other sweets, in handfuls to Collette and Frances.

When asked how their trick-or-treat experience had been that year, Frances started to giggle.

“I was an army man. And Chester was a fairy princess!”

“A what?”

“A fairy princess,” Frances’ eyes grew wide with merriment. “People thought he was really a girl. He wore a dress and everything. And he was dancing around with a wand. And after he left the houses, we told the people at the door, ‘You know that fairy princess was a boy?’ And they would die of laughter.”

Collette gave Frances a break from the books when she, Mom, and Linnea drove out to the Galleria for Collette’s un-birthday present. Frances was very happy about his break and flew out the back door to his newly established army camp structure in the back yard. Made of chicken wire, trampoline poles, firewood, army tarps… it was a good shelter. Frances sat in it and watched the afternoon pass.

“Hey, Mom, can I spend the night at Collette’s and OLeif’s next week?”

“If you’re a good little monster.”

“I will be.”

“Now, go get a brush so I can do your hair before we go.”

“No!”

Being sent for the brush was a death sentence for Linnea.

“Mom, please!”

“No, Linnea. Your hair is a rat’s nest.”

“But I like it that way.”

Linnea was brushophobic. There was no way around it. Her scalp screamed when it saw the brush. She never brushed her hair, allowing it to develop into terrible tangles. So she ran the other way when the brush came out in order to escape the pain. That is why, whenever Collette was around, and Linnea’s hair had to be brushed, she lost no time. Collette grabbed for the brush with one hand and for Linnea’s hair in the other. Then came the attack.

“Ow! Ow! Owwwwwwwwwww!”

“Don’t be a baby, Linnea,” Joe told her.

“I can’t help it! Ow! Collette, stop! Ow!”

“Almost done.”

“Owwwwwwwwwww!”

Twenty seconds later, Linnea’s hair was in a pony tail, her face red from the exertion. She grabbed the brush and probably would have thrown it out the back door. But what good would it have done? There were four more in the sink drawer.

“Start brushing your hair more, and we won’t have to keep doing this,” Collette told her.

Linnea scowled at it and put it away.

She was soon able to forget her sorrows, however, over a chocolate milkshake on the way to the Galleria. Life was good again.