Wet Hair

I have two little sisters who drive motorcycles. Katydid uses her death machine to drive herself from home to school, to work, to her other work, back to school and then home again. She also has a license. Allerina, on the other hand, is yet to turn fifteen. She has been whipping herself around on the dirt bike for a few years now, but I never thought that I'd see the day when she came rolling down my parents driveway in her own little Honda Rebel. This girl has guts. And I love them. And I don't want to see them splattered all over the road. But that is not why I'm writing this angry post.

I'm mad because she got my hair wet. That is to say, she wrestled me into a kiddie pool of water--right after she squirted poor Atrain right up the nose with the hose--directly following my immediate warning not to listen to our little devil of a dad tempting her to do it--but not before I dunked her sorry face in first--all while my father leaned back into his camping chair chuckling at the scene he had orchestrated.

And, then there was poor Atrain, who misinterpreted our sissy screams and giggling grunts as a real-live family feud. He stood in the adjacent pool with tears streaming down his face, squirting the hose at my sister with all his might. I probably did more damage to the kid trying to defend him than Allerina did squirting him in the face in the first place. As soon as I saw his dismay the ruckus came to screeching halt and we all cracked into a thunder of laughs. After a few explanations and a salty-cookie trick to get back at mean Allerina, Atrain was as good as new. My hair, on the other hand, had to be washed three days sooner than expected. Blast that Allerina. If only she were still the small, brave little girl who used to run away from home in her Pooh costume. Then again, I guess not much has changed--except now she drives a motorcycle.