The Tingle Means It's Working

My personal circadian rhythm has not quite adjusted to Daylight Savings. This morning I spent nearly two hours in the shower trapped in an endless cycle of lather, rinse, repeat. Too sleepy to remember if I had already washed my hair, I only stopped when the shampoo bottle was empty. What started as a mild tingling sensation after the first lather eventually turned into a searing chemical burn.

It was a good thing that I ran out of shampoo. As it is, my scalp retains only a tenuous grasp on any semblance of a hairdo. My hair follicles barely survived this napalm treatment.

At 44 years-old and first thing in the morning, my shampoo is the only thing about me that can be described as Pert. Like a lunch lady's arm flab, everything else just hangs loosely from my skeleton.

Only a strong dose of caffeine gives me enough muscle tone to even make it to the car. Operating with an impairment level equal to six mixed drinks, it's a wonder that I ever make it to my office.

As always, I must admit that my sleep-deprived condition is mostly my fault. I have absolutely no business watching Latvian Roller Derby at 1:00 am on ESPN-Eastern Bloc.