"Just like this?" I asked.
"Yes, just lather it on. Feel the smooth creaminess all over" she cooed.
I wasn't entirely sure how well it would go. Staring at the assortment of things that could be perceived as weapons, I felt a little bit awkward. Spatulas. Saran wrap. Duct tape. Given the right circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed the object in a variety of ways. Not today.
There are many topics that I relate to my mother in law with well. Above all are clothes, Victoria's Secret, shoes, and spa-ishness. She has single-handedly awakened my inner froufrou. Not that I'm not girly, I'd just rather be in xtra-tuff boots hauling in fish or hiking. Okay, I guess I'm not that girly. But my life in the South among the Southern Belles has prompted a change in living as a means to socialize. And you know what? It's kind of fun. Facial nights with the girls, Mary Kay parties and mani/pedis are an acquired taste, but I have finally developed a sense of appreciation for them. But there are many new things that I have never tried, and I'm not sure I ever will again.
Mayonnaise is meant for sammiches. Maybe some sort of salad-like bar-b-que side dish. Not like this. "C'mon, Rose. You'll love it. You'll love the way it feels afterwards."
I scooped up a large spatula full of mayo. I took a deep breath.
Half a jar of mayonnaise distributed itself all over my hair in a congealy blob. "Yes!" my MIL squeeled in joy, "Feel it nourishing your scalp, all over every follicle." I do believe I have an entirely different concept of joy. After rubbing the mayo through my hair, my MIL then assisted with the Saran wrap, the duct tape and a towel. Smiling, she looked at me and said, "Now we soak."
One of my girlfriends has recently informed me that if you are in the South, there is a fail-safe get-off- a-shit-list phrase when you are talking about a person within a questionable context. "Bless her heart" often works wonders. And should my wonderful mother in law read this, bless her heart, I hope she realizes that she is wonderful even if her homemade haircare products aren't.
There is a certain queasiness that I experienced as the once-mayonnais-now- melty-goo found a rift in my Saran wrap hair cover and began to seep down my neck. But apparently, it's the sun that makes all of the difference when having a mayo treatment. My MIL soaked up the sun and lounged luxuriously with her Barbie doll physique. My stubby body melted, much like the mayo, into one, fine smelling Mrs. Potato head. You could have cut me up and served me with a hotdog. My MIL looked my way, "I can feel it working its magic!" she crooned.
Rinsing mayonnaise out of one's hair isn't the easiest of tasks, but I just had to learn the hard way. Three hair washings later, I was still greezy. "That's not grease, love. That's conditioned" my MIL stated, swaying her Jhirmack bounce back perfect hair. I finally knew the way her blonde locks were so gorgeous. Perhaps mayonnaise is just another of God's gifts to blondes. Groan.
I went out dancing that night, with my greezy brunette coif. I smelled like a sammich. I shied away from the dancefloor, but after a few beverages I found myself right in the mix, busting a Moby next to a very handsome fella. He tried to talk to me, but DJ held a monopoly over all conversations. The young adonis put his lips next to my ear, but before he spoke, he took a large whiff. "Damn, girl, how's a sexy thing like you come out here smelling like a sammich?"
"Get hip, babe," I replied as I walked, non-chalantly hiding my humiliation. "Mayo is sexy."
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