Bad Hair Days

Hi! Coraline here, and I'm not very happy. I'm going to tell you why.

Look at me! Do I look happy to you?!

I'm usually a pretty happy girl. And when Aunty Beccs comes over, why, I'm usually over the moon!

Pure delight! I love Aunty Beccs!

But not today. Today and I am unhappy, and I'll tell you why.

I don't shed much. I'm a good girl, and respectful of my Mum's house, and other people's houses and vehicles when I go visit (though, if I'm really excited, I might shed a bit when I go say hi to someone I haven't seen in a while, like Aunty Beccs who doesn't visit me enough). I like to keep my hair where it belongs, which is on my body, thank-you-very-much.

But. When the weather changes, for good or ill, something horrible happens. It's like puberty except it happens a few times a year.

I blow  my coat.

Now, Uncle Dan, I know what you're thinking and let's not go there.

It means that I lose a layer of fur so a new one can grow in. It "blows" away on the wind.

It is super traumatising! I look like ... like ... unspeakable. I look unspeakably bad. I don't want to go out in public. I barely even want to chew things in the basement.

The only relief is to lose that hair. But there's no easy way to do that!

UNLESS YOU ARE EVIL.

This is why I am unhappy.

Aunty Beccs came over, took one look at my hideous appearance, and decided that she and Mum should give me a brushing.

A BRUSHING.

THE WORST.

Wrenching my hairs out by the root? Tossing them into the ether? Parts of me, just gone? Extirpated before their time?

It's appalling! Horrible!

THEY THOUGHT IT WAS GREAT FUN.

Here's a shot of me hanging my head in shame.

"Please don't take my picture, I look like I was dredged up from the bottom of the East River. Oh, okay, you're going to do what you want. Thanks Aunty Beccs.
You're the BEST."

Here's one of me trying to escape, but Mum's got me trapped by the collar. Instead of helping me, Aunty Beccs decides to take a picture.

I hate you.

What's this? Oh, I guess we have a few shots of the hair they tore from my delicate shiba flesh.

That was about the size of my head.

Here's a square metre or so of my fur.

This next one is great. This is me gasping for air next to Dad and Sam, right before they gave me up to the Evil Women.

We cool right? WRONG!

For perspective on this next one, Aunty Becc's foot is FRICKING HUGE. SHE IS A MONSTER IN EVERY WAY!

So you know what?

Screw you guys. I'm having a grown-up drink.

CORALINE OUT!

Guest Posts: Ted Finchley Brings Dick Up Again

Ted Finchley is back with Instalment 3 of Dick's Surgery! Read on as the brave Mr Dick faces his greatest challenge yet, waking up after surgery only to—no, Mr Finchley tells it so much better. 

Catch up on Instalment 2 here!

DICK’S SURGERY

Instalment Three: Recovery

My awakening was both sudden and terrifying: “I can’t move. I’m dead. Am I in heaven, purgatory or hell? I just know I’m not alive.” Within seconds, terror was replaced by a warming calm. I looked up and slowly brought two images into one smiling, beautiful face.

“I’m your nurse, Sarah,” the vision purred. As I tried to lean forward, I thought I heard: “I’ll make you feel good for all time.”

“A-h-h, I must be in heaven,” I thought. I heard myself asking: “Are you an angel? Tell me again what you said.”

A poke in the ribs was accompanied by a voice with a familiar, and loving, harshness. “Mr. Dick, my dearest, the nurse says you’ll feel good in no time.”

“Not in heaven, after all.” Doing my best to hide my disappointment, I looked over to my charming wife and asked: “My dear Mrs. Dick, will I be going for surgery soon?”

Once I realised we were no longer in pre-op and the deed was done, I concentrated on watching Sarah drain the little plastic grenade connected to my surgical wound. I slipped in and out of sleep, searching for Nurse Sarah in my conscious moments, and chasing her, with the dainty Mrs. Dick at my side, romping through fields of bluebells in my drug-induced dreams.

Temperature 35 degrees C, blood pressure 99 over 66, heart rate 49; barely alive. 

Gradually I warmed up, became more coherent and realised that nurse Sarah’s shift was over—leaving me with a comforting Mrs. Dick at my side, her gentle presence lessening the depressed state in which I found myself.

Temperature 35.5 degrees C,  blood pressure 102 over 68, heart rate 60; vital signs improving. 

“They’ve strapped you in, my love, to stabilise your hip.” I looked down to see my legs separated by, and firmly bound to, a big blue contraption shoved up into my groin.

More drugs to the IV; more pills to swallow; more plastic jug emptying; more despondent boredom.

As evening approached, another recovering patient, obviously heavily drugged, was wheeled into the space behind the curtain separating our beds. With Mrs. Dick gone, I mentally prepared myself for a restful night. As I lay there, I became aware of an unpleasant feeling at the base of my abdomen, as if something was pulling at me.

More to come!