What you see here is a gross of hairbrushes. Actually I don’t know what exact number constitutes a gross of hairbrushes. You’re looking at 48, which I deem worthy of being called a gross.
Those who know me might recall I facilitated a service project where we made health kits for refugees last January. For that, I had a gross of combs. Thus, one might see my gross of brushes and assume we’re getting ready to take part in another such noble endeavor.
If one were to express that assumption to me with a straight face, it’d likely lead to laughter induced incontinence.
Because there was no benevolence whatsoever behind the purchase of these brushes.
They were purchased in a moment of
petty rage problem solving (to-MAY-toe, toh-MAAAHHH-toe, right??!!). It was a commemoration of sorts. Of the 500th time I’d gone to blow dry my hair (in MY bathroom) and found it to be devoid of any hair brushes. Despite my having purchased approximately 72.2 brushes over the past 18-ish months. And having told her 1,212 times not to take my brushes out of the dang bathroom.
Let me provide you with some background social media oversharing of yours truly:
Upon presenting the gross of hairbrushes to my daughter, her response was, “Geez mom, you didn’t have to throw such a tantrum.” Essentially the equivalent of WHY IS MOM SO TRIGGERED ALL THE TIME.
My response was something along the lines of Tom Hanks in The Money Pit.
If you haven’t seen the movie, the bathtub falling through the floor was not the first thing to go wrong in Tom Hanks’ character’s day. The dude didn’t just randomly lose his shit when one thing went wrong. It was more of a straw that broke the camel’s back scenario.
My purchase of 48 hair brushes is Tom’s maniacal laughter.
Or, in the words of a 13 year old, a tantrum.
Yes, me being sick of 18 months of not being able to find a brush and ordering a gross is a tantrum. It couldn’t possibly be, you know, the cumulative effect of 18 months of being ignored when I ask my kid not to take all the damn brushes. The problem is all mine.
Are ya fucking kidding me?
Have I mentioned I sometimes feel like my family doesn’t listen to me? Of course I have. I linked it above, and what the hell, I’ll do it here too.
Is there really any hope of me coming out of the next six years with a shred of sanity? I’m honestly asking. Wait. No. No I’m not. Don’t answer that. Just promise you’ll come visit me in the asylum. My hair will look fabulous.