I’m in Seattle for work this week, which means I have the sincere pleasure of shacking up with my younger sister. It’s almost as if I’ve been transported back to 1997…we’re sharing a bed, a blow dryer, and (gasp!) even a bathroom.
Thankfully, we’ve matured significantly since adolescence. There’s far less screaming, hair pulling, and fingernail scratching than back in our middle school days. Although I have been known to bust out my freshly manicured claws in a few extreme cases.
(Like when Hayley eats the last Lara Bar.)
Still, I pride myself in how far I’ve come. The sixteen-year-old Katrina would have screamed and possibly thrown a flat-iron at someone upon seeing this on the bathroom floor.
The rational, grown-up Katrina simply filed a polite, yet slightly confused inquiry.
“Um…Hayley? Why are there pieces of oatmeal all over your bathroom floor? Did you try to make a face mask again?”
“Ha!” she giggled casually. “Nah. It’s for my hair. You know how you use baby powder as a dry shampoo on the days you don’t wash it?”
I nodded slowly. Hayley and I both inherited the incredibly greasy locks of our father, Mark. Imagine an oily, scalp-based version of the five-o-clock shadow, and you get the idea. As a result, my sister and have been buying baby powder in bulk for years.
“Okay. And you know how baby powder kind of tints your roots white?”
I nodded again. I really didn’t like where this was going.
“Well,” she continued. “Oatmeal does basically the same thing! The oats soak up all the grease from your hair. Plus…my hair is basically the same color as oatmeal, so I’m not stuck with a scalp that’s a weird, ashy color.”
I was shocked, to say the least.
“Do you eat the oats when you’re done?” I asked incredulously.
“No!” she screamed while gazing at me in horror. “That would be disgusting.”
Perhaps it’s the cheapskate in me, but this seems like a terrible waste of perfectly good breakfast food.
“You should try it sometime.” Hayley coaxed. “It works really great.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I replied. “I prefer to eat my oats out of a bowl. Plus…my hair’s way darker than yours. I’d probably have to use Coco Puffs or something.”
Hayley nodded in agreement.
“Plus,” I continued, “Aren’t you worried about…I don’t know…accidentally running out the door with a couple of stray oats in your weave, or something?”
(Truly, such a travesty would be even worse than the dreaded toilet paper stuck in the shoe calamity!)
“Meh…not really.” she shrugged. “This is Seattle, after all. And the oats are organic.”
Of course they are.
(Next thing you know, she’s going to be coloring her hair with all-natural beet juice grown by blind, vegan monks, or something.)
(Although as long as she stays away from those hair ties crafted from dried strands of free range beef, I suppose I’ll allow it.)