and jagged self-styled haircut.
The uneven slashes to
her hair looked like the edges of a flag that had been waving and slapping on
some metal pole for decades and been torn to pieces.
Her beautiful blonde
hair which had previously grown well below her shoulders was now just above her
ear on the right side, but hung awkwardly at her neck on the left side.
"She must have
grabbed the scissors in the kitchen before going in there," she said,
obviously embarrassed. "I just . . . didn't know what else to do but have
you come get her. What if my Tabby copies this outrageous behavior? This sort
of thing just doesn't happen in this house."
"Well, apparently
it does," I said, annoyed that the woman had decided the worst thing to
come out of this incident was the chance that her own daughter might get an
idea in her head.
"And thanks for the
play date," I said. "We'll have to do this again sometime."
Georgia just stared at
me, her mouth agape.
Gracie didn't cry or get
upset, even when I took her to the Super Cuts and had them even out wild
haircut. The stylist managed to
erase the cavewoman look. It's now very short—just slightly longer than a
boy—but nowadays, who knows what passes for a boy haircut.
"You know
what?" I told her, "I think you look cute."
She just nodded and said
noting until we got back to the house.
"I just wanted it
different," was all she said. She skipped dinner and went straight to bed
at 5:30.
In truth, she did look
cute—a kid with parents who looked like Trevor and Jennifer had a lot
going for her in any case. Short hair. Long hair. Bed hair. Didn't really
matter.
I can only imagine that
cutting your own hair wasn't an option before I came into the picture. Gracie
probably had a Jennifer-approved hairstylist who did it for her. Gracie was so
calm about the whole thing, which I find odd, but can't pinpoint why. Maybe she
did just wanted it shorter and that was the only reason. Maybe.
I quietly close Gracie's
door to let her get the sleep that she obviously needs.
*
* *
Kendall's door is
closed, but not locked. She had asked to make breakfast in the morning and I
wanted to make sure she got started because honestly, I'm starving. I twist the
handle and slowly pushed it open to wake her up.
I hear a thud, then a
male voice.
"Fuck, man. What
the hell?" the voice says.
It was
Ethan—Kendall's boyfriend.
Great.
Chapter 11
All I see is a pale
moon. Sitting atop two hairy trunks is a pale, cracked-in-half, vertical moon. Ethan's
moon. Kendall's boyfriend's bare ass. He's bending over, putting himself on
full display for me. It wiggles,
but for some reason I can't look away. Why is this ass in my face? Why in the
middle of Kendall's room—one that thankfully doesn't look like Easter
eggs or rainbows—is this thing looking at me?
Reality confronts me.
The little pecker slept over—in her bedroom. Her bed! While I rode the
lumpy couch in the living room he was in here with Kendall, doing
God-knows-what. OK, both God and I know what they were probably doing, but it's
an image I'd like to banish from my mind forever.
Man, I hate this kid.
I glance at the clock on
the wall. The one sitting in front of the vintage Guns 'n' Roses poster on the
wall. 7:45 a.m.
The moon finally sets,
covered by a pair of blue jeans hastily pulled upward and shook into place.
Then I hear a howl from
Ethan that can only be described as a man facing his greatest fear. A
terrifying wail.
Ethan spins around with
his hands clutching his crotch, the blood trickling down his pant leg. He
caught his penis in the zipper of his pants. Poking out from the half-zipped
pants was the nub of his organ.
"Oh my God,
Ethan!" Kendall screams as she rushes toward him and reaches out.
"No!" he
shouts. "Don't touch it! No!"
His voice is high and
pained.
He stumbles backward
trying to avoid her investigative probing. He's leaning against the wall, still
holding himself.
What seems like an
eternity passes as all
The uneven slashes to
her hair looked like the edges of a flag that had been waving and slapping on
some metal pole for decades and been torn to pieces.
Her beautiful blonde
hair which had previously grown well below her shoulders was now just above her
ear on the right side, but hung awkwardly at her neck on the left side.
"She must have
grabbed the scissors in the kitchen before going in there," she said,
obviously embarrassed. "I just . . . didn't know what else to do but have
you come get her. What if my Tabby copies this outrageous behavior? This sort
of thing just doesn't happen in this house."
"Well, apparently
it does," I said, annoyed that the woman had decided the worst thing to
come out of this incident was the chance that her own daughter might get an
idea in her head.
"And thanks for the
play date," I said. "We'll have to do this again sometime."
Georgia just stared at
me, her mouth agape.
Gracie didn't cry or get
upset, even when I took her to the Super Cuts and had them even out wild
haircut. The stylist managed to
erase the cavewoman look. It's now very short—just slightly longer than a
boy—but nowadays, who knows what passes for a boy haircut.
"You know
what?" I told her, "I think you look cute."
She just nodded and said
noting until we got back to the house.
"I just wanted it
different," was all she said. She skipped dinner and went straight to bed
at 5:30.
In truth, she did look
cute—a kid with parents who looked like Trevor and Jennifer had a lot
going for her in any case. Short hair. Long hair. Bed hair. Didn't really
matter.
I can only imagine that
cutting your own hair wasn't an option before I came into the picture. Gracie
probably had a Jennifer-approved hairstylist who did it for her. Gracie was so
calm about the whole thing, which I find odd, but can't pinpoint why. Maybe she
did just wanted it shorter and that was the only reason. Maybe.
I quietly close Gracie's
door to let her get the sleep that she obviously needs.
*
* *
Kendall's door is
closed, but not locked. She had asked to make breakfast in the morning and I
wanted to make sure she got started because honestly, I'm starving. I twist the
handle and slowly pushed it open to wake her up.
I hear a thud, then a
male voice.
"Fuck, man. What
the hell?" the voice says.
It was
Ethan—Kendall's boyfriend.
Great.
Chapter 11
All I see is a pale
moon. Sitting atop two hairy trunks is a pale, cracked-in-half, vertical moon. Ethan's
moon. Kendall's boyfriend's bare ass. He's bending over, putting himself on
full display for me. It wiggles,
but for some reason I can't look away. Why is this ass in my face? Why in the
middle of Kendall's room—one that thankfully doesn't look like Easter
eggs or rainbows—is this thing looking at me?
Reality confronts me.
The little pecker slept over—in her bedroom. Her bed! While I rode the
lumpy couch in the living room he was in here with Kendall, doing
God-knows-what. OK, both God and I know what they were probably doing, but it's
an image I'd like to banish from my mind forever.
Man, I hate this kid.
I glance at the clock on
the wall. The one sitting in front of the vintage Guns 'n' Roses poster on the
wall. 7:45 a.m.
The moon finally sets,
covered by a pair of blue jeans hastily pulled upward and shook into place.
Then I hear a howl from
Ethan that can only be described as a man facing his greatest fear. A
terrifying wail.
Ethan spins around with
his hands clutching his crotch, the blood trickling down his pant leg. He
caught his penis in the zipper of his pants. Poking out from the half-zipped
pants was the nub of his organ.
"Oh my God,
Ethan!" Kendall screams as she rushes toward him and reaches out.
"No!" he
shouts. "Don't touch it! No!"
His voice is high and
pained.
He stumbles backward
trying to avoid her investigative probing. He's leaning against the wall, still
holding himself.
What seems like an
eternity passes as all
Similar Books
