I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Smelling like gasoline

“What’s that smell? Do you smell it?” asks my father a few seconds after I get in the car and shut the door.


“It started when you got in the car. Smells like gasoline.”

“It’s not me. I don’t smell like gasoline. I don’t even wear cologne.”

“Well, I smell it. I don’t know where it’s coming from.”


Then I remember I took off my toque when I entered the car. It was warm inside, so I didn’t need to have it on my head. Because I used a conditioner when I washed my hair, it’s probably the scent he’s noticing.

“Here, inhale.” I lean towards my father in the car while he’s driving.

“That’s what it is. That’s the smell.”

“It’s conditioner. I used it on my hair today because it was dry.”

“Your conditioner smells like gasoline.”

“It does not smell like gasoline. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I stop from wanting to argue with him because I know what he’s getting at. The smell doesn’t remind him of petrol but of chemicals. He knows what he’s talking about, but can’t describe it using the correct term.

I throw on my toque, again, so I don’t have to hear him complain about my shiny and manageable hair. It’s not worth it.


Anonymous bitch said...

Your "toque?" Jesus.

May 31, 2010 8:07 pm  

Post a Comment

<< Home