(I'm still fat, by the way).
So, I've come back to London to spend Easter with my parents, reconnect with home, eat some food with vitamins in it rather than carbohydrates.
And one way of reconnecting with my mother is to allow her to do some mothering (reconnecting with my father just needs copious amounts of sarcasm). So she cut my hair. If I felt it made much of a difference, this would be a considerable gamble, given that she's "getting on" now, and sometimes, in the evenings looks small and old and in danger of getting lost.
Anyway, she dug at a "flake of skin" on my scalp. Ouch. The flake of skin was my scalp.
So, she said, I think you should put some oil on your scalp.
Oh, I replied. Will it make me look like Gene Vincent?
No, she said. You won't have some greasy quiff. It's special oil for your scalp.
What is it?
It's oil for your scalp.
Really?
It's called Scalp Oil.
Round and round it goes... I think sarcasm offers more efficient bonding.
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