Your Loyal Servant

(15) How Do I Do This?

It was official: my hair was hopeless. There was no preventative conditioner or spray that could tame this wild beast atop my head. No matter what I did, it always did whatever it wanted to do. I had zero control.

When I woke up the next morning, my hair was all tangles and frizz. It exploded around my head like an afro-gone-bad. When I saw it in the mirror, I just stared at it, encouraging it to fix itself. When nothing happened and it remained a messy mop, I groaned and went downstairs, too groggy to do anything about it.

I slid into a chair at the dining table, sniffing the air that smelled of delicious syrupy goodness. When I pried my eyes open again, The Freak placed a plate of buttermilk pancakes smothered in butter and soaked in syrup in front of me, along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

His hand froze and he glanced at me—or, more accurately, my hair. His lips pursed and pulled downward, as his eyebrows furrowed. He straightened and noted, "Ma'am, your hair is askew."

Mouth full of heavenly pancakes, I replied, "No shit. That happens when I sleep."

"Well, yes," he agreed, his face still painted in concern, "but never as bad as this. Did you have a nightmare?"

I swallowed and looked at him. Smirking, I teased, "I don't know. You were in it. So would you consider that a nightmare?"

He didn't look amused. He rolled his shoulders back and ordered, though polite about it, "Remain here. I will return shortly."

Arching an eyebrow, I watched him disappear from the room. I shrugged, assuming he was going to grab something irrelevant, and continued to stuff my mouth full of this delectable breakfast that would make a choir of angels sing. Seriously, how did the guy do it?

Freaky came back with a brush in his hand once I'd emptied my plate. When I saw it, I choked on my orange juice and wiped my hand across my mouth. I stared skeptically at him, but he just looked back with a determined flicker in his eye.

The pieces connected, and I realized with wide eyes that he was going to brush my hair. Oh, hell no.

I jumped up from my seat and grasped my head, trying to protect my hair. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. You are not touching my hair."

He continued to approach me, unfazed by the murderous glare I was shooting at him. He chided, as though my mother, "Madam, your hair is in a chaotic heap atop your head. It'll take you forever and a day just to remove the tangles. Allow me to brush through it and your hair will be smooth in a matter of minutes."

I stared at him, doubtful. I backed away from him, trying to decide whether or not I would let him touch my hair (it was one of my best features, so I was a bit protective).

And then—this was the clincher—he bowed and said in that silky smooth voice of his, "Please, ma'am."

My lips pursed and a moment later, I groaned in defeat and plopped back down at the table, crossing my arms. I pouted childishly as he ventured towards me. I felt a light tug on my head as he grabbed a strand of hair, and the soft pulls continued as he worked his way through a tangle.

Because it felt like a head massage (damn it), my eyes started to flutter shut and my taut muscles relaxed. The only things that kept me from falling asleep were the harder tugs when the brush snagged on a particularly tough tangle.

"Last night," he started, quiet, as though he knew I was half-asleep and didn't want to disturb me, "you said I seemed different. I apologize for being so forward, but you appear changed as well. You are no longer completely hostile towards me."