You can’t help but be smug. You can’t help but call your friends in frozen places. When you live in Southern California and it’s 75 degrees in January, you have to tell people. This weekend while my wife and I were planting lavender and acting like suburban homesteaders, Toddler Harbat was playing out the in yard. Imagine being in short sleeves and setting up a picnic in the grass in January. Listen, I come from the East Coast and have suffered through winters of cutting winds and black ice with weather that warms up to one notch above freezing so it can rain instead of snowing. I’ve served my time. My reward is this: a picnic with my daughter, Rapunzel Barbie head, and a snack of fake blueberries yanked off the Indian hawthorne in front of our house.
There’s something about sitting in the grass under a warm sun, your body aching from a full day of manual labor, that makes you want nothing more than to salon somebody’s hair. This is the gospel according to TH, who was only too happy to supply me with braids to clip into Rapunzel’s thinning and unnaturally lustrous hair.
What’s that, Rapunzel? You want another braid? Coming right up!