conversation:
mom: ok, stick your head under here.
[I place my hair under the faucet until all is wet.]
mom: why is it dripping?
me: because it's wet.
[mom rubs my hair with towel and then runs her fingers through my matted mess.]
mom: it's not very wet.
me: umm probably because YOU JUST DRIED IT.
mom: no, you didn't get it wet enough. let me do it.
and process repeats.
giving a plastic bag its fifteen minutes of fame.
red tint on my hair's infinite blackness. I smell like cinnamon.
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