She kept insisting, telling me that she was perfectly happy to color

her chestnut brown hair a combination of midnight black and peacock

blue all by herself. Me being me, I left her to it and baked our Shabbat

challah, never thinking the lav would look like someone slaughtered a

Vulcan in cold blood. (And who would slaughter a Vulcan, anyway?

They’re harmless with their inadvertent autistic behavior and super human

intelligence,that so remind me of my daughter.) So, I made a joke to her

about the unfortunate demise of the mystery Vulcan, and thanked her

for at least committing the murder in the claw foot tub and not the floor

where my vintage, Deco, duo chromatic, ceramic tile could be compromised.

She didn’t understand. I imagine an orchestra of crickets would have been rubbing

their ankles together under the windows if it weren’t for the gale force winds

and tornado warning happening outside. You might think it was my

morbid sense of humor that left her standing perplexed in front of the linen press,

but it was far more disturbing than that. She frowned as the light shimmered

on the bluish green sheen of her still dripping wet hair, and asked me what

the bleep a Vulcan was. Of course, I, taken completely by surprise, made

my apologies to Leonard Nimoy (may his memory be a blessing) and told her,

“Live long and prosper,” as I handed her the bleach free cleanser and a roll

of organic paper towels. She can clean up her own bleeping crime scene.