Friday, May 27, 2011


Steadily, I raised my hand in the air and brought it gently down on the wiggling child's wild hair. "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" he yelled with each stroke as if I were beating him over the head.

"If you held still it wouldn't pull," I said, fatigue filling my voice.

He continued to wiggle, throwing up a hand to block me from continuing to brush that area.  "Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!" he bellowed again, removing his hand to reveal the now unruly hair that had once been tamed.

"Stand still, will you?" I growled and brought the brush down again.  He dodged to the side, causing the brush to rake lightly over his ear.

"You're hurting me!" Glee colored his cheeks. I grabbed the top of his head and turned it so I could see his eyes back to the mirror.

"Don't move on pain of death." My voice was low and measured, heavy with seriousness. I gripped the brush tighter and brushed his hair, relieved he was acting the role of a statue. With a last flourish, I laid the brush down and placed my hands on his shoulders. "What do you think?"

He brushed a hand over the strict lines the brush had made in his damp hair. "It's perfect," he responded, a happy color in his cheeks again.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

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