The headrest is plucking the hairs out of my head as I roll down the highway. I’ve never even heard of this problem before.
Granted, if I hadn’t been so cheap and had sprung for the fancy leather upholstery, I would be blogging about something else right now. But I also would have been forced to take better care of the car.
Why, I don’t even have leather on my living room furniture.
For the longest time, I was waiting for Muffin Uptown to grow up–just until the age when she was no longer spring boarding from across the room before falling onto the furniture. She’s 21 years old now, but she still launches herself into low orbit before coming down for emergency landing on the couch. I’m probably not going to be comfortable with the idea of leather furniture until she’s leaning on a walker and is physically unable to accomplish lift-off.
Once again I’ve digressed all over the place. The real issue isn’t the leather furniture I don’t have, it’s the hairs I did have until a couple of hours ago and that are now poking up out of the upholstery of my car. By month end, the front seat is going to look like the Jungle Room at Graceland.
There are really only two things that provoke my ire: having my hair plucked and my teeth poked--both, unfortunately--necessary torture if I am to appear well-groomed. I can control my temper as long as these operations are being performed by properly trained and licensed professionals. But having my hairs arbitrarily and unexpectedly yanked out by the root as I speed along highway 10 is making me quite fractious. By the time I arrive at my destination, all I really want to do is hurt somebody the way I've been hurt.
It's a vicious cycle.