I spent a few hours last week with a 10-year-old named Molly. When I left, my hair looked like this:
In case you can’t get a good look, those are pink streaks, courtesy of Molly’s Hannah Montana hair pens. (Yes, Miss Montana long ago infiltrated the televisions of unsuspecting British families.)
One of my favorite sounds is the cacophony of children’s shrieks that carry into my kitchen from the gardens overlooked by our flat. I’ve left the french doors open all summer, and when I’m home in the daytime, I love to hear the sounds of children playing. More than that, I love to hear them screaming bloody murder.
It’s not sadistic; it’s a little bit of jealousy. There is such reckless abandon in the top-of-the-lungs scream of a child, brought on by the very real danger of being chased around the garden by a big brother with a water gun, or even a buzzing bumble bee.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I was chased with a water gun, let alone the last time I screamed at the top of my lungs. And before last week, I can’t remember the last time I let someone color my hair with pink Hannah Montana pens.
But I intend to do both on a much more regular basis.