I got a much needed haircut last Friday. It’s been at least a year since I got a trim and the ends of my mistreated hair felt like Rumplestiltskin’s Straw (before turning to gold). I had to find a new hairdresser because mine moved out of state, so that’s something I can put off for forever.
But I found one. And I went. And my hair felt so free and happy and light and bouncy and healthy and shiny and all the things.
Half an hour later, I was walking down the block when I heard a whistle.
I looked up, and there was a septic tank cleaning truck. It was painted up on the side with a joyful bee flying in circles, and it stated proudly that it was “The Honey Wagon.” As that’s how everyone wants to think of their poo – synonymous with honey. (Which is, in fact, bee barf. So I really don’t understand the connection at all.)
My eyes made their way up to the driver’s window, and I made eye contact with a completely legit Santa Claus, minus the red suit.
He had bright, long white hair (with no split ends I’m sure) and a white beard at a length and breadth that Dumbledore would be jealous. And as he waved and winked at me, acknowledging that the whistle had indeed come from him, I definitely saw a Santa-like twinkle in his eye.
So clearly my haircut was successful.
And let’s all take a moment to be relieved that Santa has a job in the off-season. Even if it is still hauling everyone else’s crap all over town.
I have an entire category of my personal sleepwalking stories (most including injuries.) Thankfully I haven’t partaken in the hobby in quite some time (or at least not violently – sometimes I’ll wake up in other rooms, but I haven’t thrown myself at a slice n’ dice dresser handle, or run into a wall, or dived off a bed in a seriously long while.)
Unfortunately, the disease of sleepwalking is genetic. And both my children were unlucky enough to receive that gene, rather than their father’s superior sleep gene that allows him to be the one in our marriage that falls asleep in two seconds and never rises in his sleep to ambulate from place to place.
(By the way, I have the theory that in every marriage, one spouse fall asleep in seconds, and one spouse has to lie there and rehash every conversation they had that day before they fall asleep, along with several rolls from their side to their stomach to their back to their other side. Is this true? Discuss.)
It’s creepy enough to wake up where you’re not supposed to be, but there is nothing – NOTHING I tell you – creepier than a child sleepwalking in the middle of the night, their little zombie eyes staring three inches to the right of you with a dazed and blank look on their face. It’s as if they can see the ghosts having a soiree right next to you and you have no idea.
Friday night, I was enjoying a moment of quiet reading in my bedroom when I heard Noah’s door open. I looked at my watch – it was 10:24. Too late for sleepy gummies (We have a rule that if you’re still awake at 10pm, you can come get a Melatonin Gummy. Noah has been known to stay away staring at his clock to earn a sweet treat. So we had to get a bit more militant with the idea of “if you’re still awake.”)
I put down my book and silently waited to hear if he was headed to the bathroom.
I got concerned, so I got out of bed and peeked into the hallway.
He was standing at the top of the stairs, in full-on zombie stare, his comforter wrapped around him and held by both hands around his neck like a cape, the bottom trailing the ground and wrapped around his feet in a very trip-and-fall-waiting-to-happen fashion.
Oh no. No no no.
I grabbed his shoulders just as he hovered his left foot over the stairs, as if he was going to walk down them but was sure they stretched out in the space in front of him and not in a downward fashion – a downward fashion that he was surely about to fall into.
I tried to disentangle his feet from his comforter and led him back to bed, all the while as he protested “But I’ve got to get (garble gobbledegook.) I need to get (you never can understand a whole sentence spoken from a sleepwalker.)” I begged him to stay in bed as he snuggled back in and resumed sleeping in the normal horizontal fashion.
Then I went back into my room to calm my nerves and curse my genes. And to take at least thirty minutes longer to fall asleep.