My Brush With Death

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I’m always getting in trouble from Tracey for not caring enough about how our kids look when I take them downtown.

“Have they got shoes on?” Tracey called out to me as Miss2, Miss4 and I were about to head to the car last Thursday.

I love Thursdays because I’m the SAHD. Part time. On probation.

“Of course!” I shouted back.

And then shooed the girls back into their rooms.

“And don’t forget to do their hair!”

I walked to the bedrooms.

“You girls can brush your hair in the car on the way to the shops,” I told the girls. “Grab a brush each and let’s get going.”

Ten minutes later we were in the center of town. I had a list of things to do, including going to the bank, getting my phone fixed and not embarrassing Tracey.

“Let’s go,” I told the girls, picking Miss2 up to carry her up the stairs at the rear entrance to the bank.

“Hi, Bruce,” said a customer of mine, coming out of the bank and holding the door open for me. “Are these two of your…” she paused for a second, staring at Miss2’s head, “…daughters.”

“These are the babies of the family,” I told her, wondering why she was frowning.

“Did you do their hair?” she asked. “Because that’s an interesting hairpiece.”

Hanging from the back of Miss2’s head, tangled up in her mop, was the ‘brush’ she’s grabbed from home. I was about to enter my place of work and then the main street of town with a nit comb dangling off my daughter’s head.

That was way too close.

Because if I’d actually made it into the street and Tracey had got wind of it, I’d be a dead man.

A reenactment.


“Raising a family on little more than laughs.” 


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