you are trying to get some hair mousse

There's a dance I do when I'm doing my hair.  I, of course, don't mean the systematic dance of hair doing, which consists of a hair brush, hair dryer, curling iron, hair spray, hopes, dreams, mid-snack, and what have you.  I'm talking about an actual dance.

You see, by the end of it , my hair, illustrious, luscious* and curly, needs mousse, and being the cheap skate I am, I have yet to buy a new bottle.  So instead, there's about half an inch left of liquid unfluffy mousse in the bottle, which requires vigorous shaking to get to the proper consistency.  Naturally, I'll jump into Pam's room, and just start.

It starts in the stance--wide enough to get a good foundation.  Then there's the small jerky hip motion as if I'm a dollar store version of Shakira.  And of course the mousse, which I hold in one hand like a champion in one hand, shaking to the heaven's above for my victory!

There being no equivalent to the mousse dance, I'm just putting this here for context.

And Pamela just sits in bed, confused, asking me to leave, telling me how uncomfortable she is.

I just laugh and laugh.

Only this time, my mom, back from the Philippines, popped her head in while I was in the midst of my rump shaking.

"Are you okay?"

I stopped.  I laughed.

I left.

---

*I was a little surprised to see that "luscious hair" was already a blog post tag.  Clearly, I talk about my hair often.  Well, I mean...if you've seen it, you'd know**.

**But I want it said here that I'd never instagram*** my hair.  That's just weird.

***Granted, I don't have a smart phone to do so, but I wouldn't because of principle.