by EMMA CROWE
When I was a child, I remember being mortified when my mother would use her spit to clean my face. Sometimes she’d have a tissue, but other times she’d just lick her finger and wipe a bit of stray vegemite from my cheek.
I remember thinking at the time, How embarrassing! How disgusting! When I’m a mum I don’t care how grubby my children are. I will never clean their faces with my spit.
Well, how times change. I used saliva as a cleaning agent on my six-year-old’s face just yesterday…
When I was at University, I remember catching the train to Central, dressed in my groovy cream crocheted cardigan and burgundy cords. As I looked around at my fellow commuters, I would scoff inwardly at their plainly ridiculous outfits.
Who invented velour tracksuits? How tragic! How can that person possibly think they look good! I wouldn’t be seen DEAD in one of those.
Wore my velour tracksuit to the Mall just last week – oh and by the way, it’s hot pink…
As a young woman in my early twenties I remember promising myself that I would never, EVER turn into one of those women who refused to get their hair wet. I would dive into the deep end of North Sydney Olympic Pool and look on, perplexed, as all these women swam laps with their hair up in clips. The only stroke they could do was a modified kind of breast stroke and it looked silly. At the beach, I’d jump in and surrender myself to the surf and then look back to the shoreline to see all these women wading around in the shallows with their perfect hair, some venturing in as deep as their waists.
What’s wrong with you! As if you’d go swimming and not get your hair wet! Diving under waves is THE reason you go to the beach! Didn’t anybody tell you that? Who cares about your hair! You look ridiculous! You’re missing out! Your priorities are all WRONG! I’m never going to be like that.
Well, last summer I was that woman in the shallows with the perfect hair, at least twice.
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