A parent's nightmare tends to start at the prospect of putting their wide eyed children to bed. They could talk for humanity. Mine are no different. They just don't want to sleep. Most weekends, I am constantly awoken by my children who particularly enjoy trampolining on my super king-sized bed. I took them once for trampolining, but this did not work out. It wasn't quite the same thing, there was no excitement, I guess it lacked the censorship that comes with jumping up and down kids are wont to do, reaching for ceilings, treading the forbidden zones, mothers screaming for them to stop, lest their fracture some malleable bone. After a continuous litany of our berating them on finding worthwhile things to fill their idle minds weekend mornings, they found a way to entertain themselves. This weekend, as they had learnt to do of late, I was torn out of slumber by their raucous laughter. I listened for a while hoping that none of the three would cry, and was rewarded accordingly. They were getting on well, but I could not fathom how. Most importantly though, I could not begin to imagine what three children, (the youngest three and the eldest being eight) found to talk about.
With my wife half away at work so early, leaving me to man the fort, I dreaded the prospect of grooming the girls' hair. They always threw tantrums, the way they know best; cried through the whole experience, really loud; so loud you would rather be in a bombing campaign. So as the day crawled to an unjustified end, and with me promising so much sweeties and goodies, the girls braced themselves for a hair washing exercise with dad. Not a pretty sight! I went through it with the youngest, (let's call her Third Agenda or TA for short) she somehow managed to remind me to pay up before, during and after the treatment about how she had been dreaming of her sweets to come. I reassured her that I was not one to renege on my promise. She bit her lips through the ordeal and was duly rewarded. But the tables were turned when I had to wash the eldest's (call her Second Base or SB). Not only did SB no put up a fight or remind me of the promises I had made to make her life sweeter that evening, she actually volunteered to help me wash her hair herself.
Now I come from an average sized African family, modestly placed at somewhere in the middle of fifteen children (same father different mothers, you know the story); so I have learnt to become independent in most of my affairs. Let's face it; there are only so many people who can take care of number one. Over the years, I have come to watch SB spend a lot of her time combing her dolls' hairs, painting their faces, dressing them up, the works. Little did I know that this was a sinister anxiety festering in her innocent vulnerable mind. Children always do say the most outrageous things (most of it true), so when SB said she was going to marry Prime Case, (the eight year old brother, PC for short) we had all had a good barrel of laughs. PC being of a shy disposition waded off her advances by saying he already had four girlfriends lined up for marriage, and he genuinely did. School run is a constant "Bye" to this girl and "I love you" to the other. They don't mind, they are too young to understand the implications of their words. Anyway, this week I had to get SB ready for a trip to the salon and while I applied the shampoo to her dusty scalp, she actually volunteered to have a go. Independent minded at such an innocent age, who was I to disagree, so naturally, I obliged. But we all know what shampoo is like; a handful of the infernal cocktail and water companies have enough reason to ban hose pipes for when we need water most. With so many women having such bad hair days and salons opening faster than McDonalds and Starbucks put together it is little wonder we have such water crises. Imagine what it would be like if only half the earth's surface was covered by the precious liquid!
But back to SB; two buckets later and she was still panting to wash off the suds. By the time I filled up the bucket for the third time she was too frustrated to contain her irritation. Suds in hair, ganging up against her eyes, I had the rare chance of witnessing what I consider to be her first ever bad hair day. She was not crying, but with her lips quivering to hold back the tears, I could tell she was putting up quite a struggle. This wasn't my own doing. I had not tugged at her thick tangled locks, I had not made her swallow or snort in the water and shampoo solution. It wasn't because the water was too hot or heavens forbid too cold. This was another matter. I had mixed the water to a nice cosy temperature. Right! So what was it? She was angry with herself because she could not was her own hair. Upon investigation I discovered she was particularly upset because she wouldn't be able to wash her hair at sixteen, eleven years down the line, and therefore not be able to attract the right sort of man, ultimately culminating in the fact that she may be unable to have children of her own. She was worried that her brother, PC, had refused to marry her and therefore was going to end up an old maid. She had resigned to fate that she would lead a solitary life with no life partner, but at least she wanted to be able, to preen herself so that she would have enough skills to fend for her children.
