Last night I dreamed of being 21, a sprightly young girl three year my junior, and considerably more naive and idealistic. In this dream I rode a pony with blue glittery hair, which I brushed with a sizable pink novelty comb.
Today I wake up and my cat is no longer a kitten. By that I mean he has a baritone voice and says he is sick of my shit and he is leaving home to become a real man. He packs his suitcase and leaves through the kitty door, without a university degree, without any work experience and without any social security number to claim a welfare income. I feel like I should try to stop him. What if he gets dandruff again? Who will wash him with Head and Shoulders conditioner? I know what it's like to have an itchy scalp, and I can't bear the thought of him suffering like that.
I'm going to have a better life, he says through a mouth full of catnip he stole from my herb garden.
But who's going to cure your dandruff, I announce by a pathetic sniffle. Where will you be without me, honey? In the slums? Mainlining smack with the other street kids?
My desperation is a lost cause. All I can see is his tail disappearing through the woods across the street. All I can hear is his fading voice, his smooth, manly, Barry White drawl, preternaturally echoing through the vacuum of our vast and plain suburban neighborhood.
It's not dandruff. You pinhead. It's fleas!
I think I can resign myself to his hasty departure, because, let's be honest, deep down I always considered his scratching to be a product of flea infestation..but I cannot underestimate the extensive capabilities of Head and Shoulders conditioner after viewing midday infomercials certifying unbelievable results using test patches on several different hair types. And at least, wherever he is, he is up to 70% silkier, like my glittery blue-haired pony who never had dandruff.
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