M and I actually WENT OUT the other night. To a PARTY! Yes, we took time off from the shed. But because we (well, more like just he) hadn’t socialised for so long, M’s hair had gone from short, to Greg Brady (who I just discovered is actually Barry Williams) to a kind of enraged Greg Brady with extra volume. Girls would kill for M’s hair. However, although he had many years of ‘pretty hair’ (i.e. long and shampoo commercial-lilke) he now craves only one thing. Automatic hair*. As we didn’t have time or inclination to get him to a salon or a barber, it was me, the sewing scissors and the nail scissors on the porch at dusk. He wanted me to cut it dry. I hacked away at it for about 40 minutes, hoping for the best. He was very patient, and almost invisible under the pile of brown fur that had accumulated as a result of my efforts.
“OK. Go and have a look in the bathroom mirror and see what you think.”
He disappeared into the bathroom. There was a prolonged silence. And then a wail.
“I’ve got MANGE. You’ve given me MANGE.”
“Ah – get in the shower and wash it, it’ll turn out all right.”

No one at the party suspected a thing.

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*Copyright of Small Brother