Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Blame or thank my mother.

While massaging my scalp, Ashley a reader of my blog and the shampoo girl at my hair salon, politely asked me how this all began. This being the Hygiene Hunter. Hygiene Hunter the person, not Hygiene Hunter the blog.

I was born wearing rubber gloves. My mother cried. My father was more practical about it saying to my mother, "Look on the bright side, she can change her own diapers." My parents embraced my difference. In fact, they nurtured it. Just a few months ago my mother said, "You've taken this clean thing too far." To which I replied, "Mother dearest, if you hadn't snorted Ajax during your pregnancy I wouldn't be who I am today." Kiss. Kiss. Adolescence wasn't easy, but when I saw an old man on a bus licking his finger and then wiping it on the handrail in front of him over and over and over and over and over again I knew my rubber-gloved hands weren't a curse, but rather a gift. A gift meant to be shared. People ask me why I wear black gloves. Now you know.

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