When I returned from Hollywood, I decided to wash everything. Several of my friends had told me horror stories about bedbugs as post-travel bedfellows, so I took precautions by doing laundry immediately and leaving my suitcase to harden and crack in our -18 C garage.
This evening, when I finally unloaded the dryer, I discovered Thing 1 and Thing 2. I believe I screamed. Yes, my 4” cuties had had a traumatic makeover. Gone was their shock of out-of-control hair.
Now, they either look like they’ve had a bad 80s perm (I’ve been there), or like they’re wearing a blue shower cap from a 2-star hotel (I’ve been there too).
Once the initial shock wore off and I showed my husband, I started to laugh so hard I may have cracked a rib.
Here is the before picture (note the carefree hair):
Here is the after picture (note the new hair style):
My grief over these two inanimate objects is cycling from “giddy hilarity” to “guilt and despair” faster than Elizabeth Kubler-Ross can say denial.
I’m thinking I should’ve risked the bed bugs.