It started off as a game of “rock-paper-scissors”, otherwise known as “rochambeau” for you fancy types. It ended as a spa retreat with messily painted nails, globs of hair gel on my head, and enough perfume sprayed on me to supply a French Whorehouse for a lifetime. But the story’s in the in-between.
Snags was bored and wanted to play rock-paper-scissors. It was easy enough, so I obliged him. One turn into the game and he stopped to get a piece of paper so he could keep score. “You have to win eight first,” he said as he drew a dividing line down the page and wrote “Snags” on one side, and Mom Belle, on the other.
The game continued only after I swore I’d stop playing if he didn’t stop cheating. He was slow on the throw down, waiting to see what I did with my own fist before deciding which way to put his hand.
“Stop cheating!” I demanded.
Eventually he got into the game correctly and soon enough, he won.
The score card looked something like:
Snags
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Belle
1, 2, 3, 5, 4
According to Snags, the winner got to choose between a special luncheon or a spa treatment. Only, it turns out the winner was actually the giver of the special luncheon or the spa treatment. The loser was the recipient of said prize. Having been to Snags’ “spa” before, once where he took scissors to my hair when my eyes were closed, I chose the luncheon.
“Um, you might not want to choose the luncheon,” he helpfully advised. “You don’t get to choose the menu,” he warned.
Feeling trapped, I reluctantly chose the spa treatment. I vowed to keep my eyes open no matter what.
I was ordered to remove my nail polish and my shirt. I obliged on the nail polish, but I refused on the shirt. “Shirt stays on,” I intoned with my most “this is not up for negotiating” voice.
Snags filled the bath tub with water. He kneeled in the tub and instructed me to sit on the edge of the toilet and soak my feet in the tub. He should have said “burn your feet in the tub” because that is how hot he had the water.
“Snags! This is HOT! It’s burning my feet. Isn’t it burning your knees?” I cried.
He swore he was fine as his knees turned bright red and he washed my feet and sprayed me with a plant mister from the dollar store.
Next he polished my nails. Just so you know, little boys polish nails from left to right and back again. Or in a circular pattern. Nails and finger tips alike receive this treatment. It’s quite a different look from what you’d normally expect. Good thing this treatment was free.
After the polish dried on my fingers and toes I had to soak my feet again while he sprayed my hair with the plant mister, followed by squirts of perfume to my face, my neck, my hair, my shirt, my arms, my ears, well, in short, everywhere. I could hardly breath for the smell. And because I was afraid that Snags scissors-hands would make an appearance, I kept my eyes open. Perfume burns your retinas…
Snags put globs of hair gel in my hair and sprayed me with hairspray. “Wow, you have a lot of tangles,” he marveled as he yanked a comb through the globby mess he’d wrought.
“Oh look!” he said. “One of your hairs, came out. It’s very nice. I think I’ll keep this,” he said as he stuck the lone hair into a Dixie cup on his bathroom counter.
I shuddered and thought about Hannibal Lector. Was this how he started off? Giving his mom a spa treatment and keeping hairs he ripped from her head? I vowed to read Silence of the Lambs again to find out. Disturbing tendencies, these.
Next, Snags lathered lotion on my face and arms. He sprayed on more perfume before leading me to the basement for a “massage”.
Note: The term massage is used here in the loosest sense of all. Unless you enjoy having little hands pinch you and pound on your back, that is. Luckily, the massage was short. Thirty seconds of pinching and pounding and it was finished.
“All done!” Snags, announced, satisfied.
“Oh, is that it, then?” I asked, relieved.
He confirmed we were done. Then he went upstairs to watch Nickelodean. I went upstairs to wash the mess out of my hair and the perfume off of the rest of me. Including my eyes.
Running With Books 