This post really has nothing to do with raising daughters. I was just cleaning out my mental closets, and I remembered this stuff. I thought it was funny and decided to share. Enjoy!
Growing up, Sundays were ALWAYS church days at my house, (and it seemed like Monday thru Saturday didn’t seem to be off limits either) and living right next to a church meant that there weren’t a lot of reasons why we could miss it. Let’s see…there was projectile vomiting, fevers of over 102 and DEATH of a close family member. Yup…that pretty much sums up the excuses. Outside of those excuses, we’d be sitting right in the pews of Saint John Missionary Baptist Church come Sunday mornings. To make matters worse, sometimes, we had to pull DOUBLE DUTY…..…morning worship in the a.m. and “singing program” in the afternoon. That’s what happens when your mother is on the Usher’s board.
Anyway, throughout the house, there was a lot of preparation that went into getting ready for church on Sunday morning. Personally, however, my preparation was actually pretty easy. My routine went something like this:
1) Bathe – but only when I thought I couldn’t get away with not doing it. (I WAS a little boy, after all.)
2) Brush my teeth (see note in bold from step one)
3) Put on my clothes
4) Comb my hair.
Now step four was REALLY important for a couple of reasons. First and foremost was because if I didn’t do it, a) it was more obvious from a distance than step one and b) as long as I kept my mouth SHUT, it was WAAAAY more obvious than step two. MOST importantly, was that the risk of getting caught was that Mama would comb it for me. Now, I don’t know if any of your Mamas combed your heads, but when MY Mama combed MINE, I swear that she was possessed by some Nazi prison guard or something. She was MERCILESS. She would grab the comb with the SMALLEST teeth, and then she would proceed to do what I call a “deep combing”. You know the ones, when she would cup your forehead in her palm, hold the comb at the base of the back of your neck, thrust the comb all the way to the root, and draaaaaaaaag, it all the way through to the front. My kicking and screaming didn’t help a bit because Mama had NO respect for the BBs that took residence in the neighborhood at the base of my neck, nor their neighbors that moved to the suburbs all across my scalp.
(Forgive me if the ink here is a lil smudged…I couldn’t catch the tear before it hit the page.)
No matter how bad my experiences were though, my little sister’s routine was WAY more intricate and was a far, far, FAR more harrowing experience than mine. That chica had it bad. At least my routine didn’t involve hot friggin’ iron! I can honestly say that I remember waking up on most Sunday mornings to the sound of sizzling hair grease, the smell of burning hair, and every so often, the smell of burning ear tips, necklines, and scalps as they wafted through the air…..ahhhhh…Sunday mornings…good times, good times.
Tis all…Just wanted to share that with ya. See ya next time