Last night I hennah’ed my darlin’s head. She suggested gloves, but I was all manly and stuff. Besides, the gloves were at the other end of the house, and who wants to walk that far to keep his hands clean? It’s just skin. It’ll wash.
45 minutes later her hair was covered in the slop, and so were my hands. Washing it off, I found that I had a lovely burnt orange complexion on my hands. And fingernails.
And it doesn’t come off. Not with soap, nor salt scrubs, nor anything. I look like my mother was frightened by a yam when she was carrying me.
Far be it from me to fail to admit when my lovely is right. I just sent her:
- Oomp loompa doompadah doo
- I wouldn’t be orange if I’d listened to you
- Oompa loompa doompadah dee
- My hands look like yams for the whole world to see
- I put a henna mudslide on the head of my love
- Refusing to consider wearing protective gloves
- How bad can it get? is what I asked of you
- Then stuck my hands in the staining green goo!
- Oomp loompa doompadah doh
- You have the chance to say “I told you so!”
- You knew I’d turn a bright orange hue
- Like an Oompa loompa doompadah do!
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry