Jennie Smash

My sister and I are sitting in my parents’ livingroom, wearing a comfortable lounging outfits and eating fattening things. I have a cold. We each have a couch to ourselves.

The TV is on. It’s playing a commercial, featuring a pleasantly plump soccer mom type who, no doubt, has been selected specifically in order to make the commercial’s intended audience — pleasantly plump soccer moms — feel comfortable. It makes me feel so comfortable that I forget what she’s shilling, even while I’m watching it.

I’m more interested in her hair, which is short and curly, like a purse-dog’s.

“See,” I say to Mrs. Piddlington. “That hair. THAT’s what I think my hair looks like.”

She looks at me in shock. Horror. Pity. “THAT’s what you think your hair looks like? You’re INSANE.”

I nod, sadly. She’s got me there.

She looks at the screen again, and then back at me. Poodle Lady is making spokesmodel gestures, which she’s not really suited to do. Again, God knows what product she’s advertising.

“Her hair,” Mrs. Piddlington says, “Is like ramen noodles.”