Babies. Aren’t we all too precious, no matter how much, or little, hair/fur we may be born with? As you can see, I myself was blessed with an abundance of thick, rich, yea, even luscious locks of varying shades. Who could want more? My bipeds raved over my exquisite beauty. Mom biped told anyone who would listen that I was her “mini-me” ... whatever that means. I don’t see the resemblance.
And then something went wrong. I grew up. And the mom biped took great joy attempting to live vicariously through my ever-growing, ever-curling, dred-locks, which I thought were dread-ful, but what can you do with a biped who insists on braiding, twisting, trimming, and threatening to shave designs on your scalp?! I mean, really, this is the same mom biped who brags about attempting to straighten her own teenage dreds with fabric softener! I used to live in fear that one day, she was gonna dunk me in a sinkful of blue goo.
Then came the day, a Monday, that the biped’s fur-fetish took new extremes. She got her hands on a camera and began turning me into a calendar girl, usually in ways that made me look anything but glamorous, but made other bipeds drool with envy and say, “awwwww, so cuuuuute!” (Gag.) And here's the evidence. She didn’t just take my photo in the most unflattering way EVER, but she abused her power with the aid of camera apps, thus comparing me with some ancient formerly-famous biped that went by the name of … Alfalfa! (gasp and gag!)
Somebody. Help. Me!
Pleeeeease, won’t somebody come sneak me out the back door and shuffle me off to a professional salon!
Grumpily,
The Mini-Alfalfa
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