Don't Put a Cat on Your Head!

     I ended up looking like a four-year-old Alan Dershowitz in drag. All because I didn't listen to Mother when she said, "Don't put a cat on your head!" as I raced out to the backyard.
     First alley cat to swagger by found itself perched on my head. That orange tomcat cut a fine figure. His butt on my head. Hind legs draped around my ears. My little hands grasping his hungry middle. Tom must've been looking for a place to rest, because he sat on my head still as a furry log.
     Thumbing my nose at parental guidance had no downside that morning. I seemed protected by an invisibility cloak, because I paraded around the backyard a long time, giving Tom a fine ride, without being spotted. Divine retribution came weeks later though when odd sensations caused me to pick at my head. When the doctor parted my blond locks and waved his black-light wand to have a look-see, my past sin was exposed. Ringworm! Jock itch all over my head.
     Next thing, my butt's plopped on a pile of phone books in the local barber's chair. Electric clippers scalped off my blond locks, leaving me with crying blue eyes, and a shiny noggin covered in round, pinkish "tats".
     But the worst was to come. My cotton-white hair grew in drab brown, and when it poked a timid two inches from my head, Mom gave me a perm. Then, with front teeth now missing, and a kinky mat of dark hair, I had my picture taken in a yodeling outfit - looking like a cross-dressing Alan Dershowitz.
     All these years later, it's still only the bottle that can bring my spirit comfort after that trauma. A good vintage bottle of blond hair dye. (299 words)