Your hair’s all floopy, mum

Yesterday morning, having managed to shower and dry my hair while R* watched Timothy Goes to School, I was putting my make-up on (fairly rare occurrence since I work from home and usually manage the nursery school drop-off bundled up in big coat and hat and scarf, so un-coiffed state can go unnoticed) when she came through and asked if she could watch. Fortunately, she is over the phase of grabbing every piece of make-up and gouging bits out of it, so I agreed, rather than persuade her to watch more TV.

She asked lots of questions about it all and was allowed a teeny bit of rouge (figured it was the safest and least conspicuous of the lot) on each cheek (which I completely forgot to wipe off before leaving the house – oops).

I started putting it all back in my bag and said, ‘OK. I’ve finished.’

R looked at me, with her head tilted to one side and said, ‘No, you’re not, Mummy.’

‘I’m not? Why not? Have I missed something? Have I smudged my eye-liner?’

‘No, mum. Your hair’s all floopy!’

‘Floopy? How?’

‘It’s just wrong. It’s just floopy!’

‘Oh well. That’s what it’s supposed to look like, so you’ll have to make do with a mum with floopy hair.’

‘OK. Do you want buy something in my shop now?’

I am not sure whether it was floopy because I had gone to the trouble of using a hair dryer and actually brushing it in a specific direction rather than just letting it drip dry, or whether it was because I’d dried it flicked out, instead of bobbed in . The former is probably most likely, really.

* R = daughter, 2.5 years