It’s My Head

My mother could be so unreasonable about what I did with my own head when I was a kid.  I was sitting on the floor at the end of the kitchen table playing one evening after dinner, when Phyllis tipped over a bowl of canned peaches.  The syrup ran off the end of the table, onto my head.  It felt cool and good.  I didn’t complain.  The next morning when Mother got ready to brush my hair for school, the hairbrush wouldn’t penetrate the hard dried mass.

“What have you gotten in your hair?”  She demanded.

“Peach juice.”

Peach juice!  Why in the world didn’t you say something?”

“It felt good!”