Camping is apparently sweaty and violent.

It’s been about twenty days since I cut 5 inches off my hair. I went through the angry, half-demented “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE STOP ME?!?” phase, and then the one where I Googled “how fast does hair grow” (the answer being 1/2 an inch per month, which never made me feel better but that didn’t stop me from Googling it a lot). But it wasn’t until we went camping that I was actually thankful for having short hair. You may be aware that there’s a heat wave in progress here in much of the U.S. (Maybe other places. I’m not entirely sure. I just regained Internet access and I’m still trying to get up to date on Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes going splitskies.) Anyway, it was hot as balls, and it was so humid that I walked around in a constant state of mild dampness. My hair decided to start freaking out upon arrival. But since it was short, the damage was containable.

Was camping fun? Let’s put it this way. It was fun in the way that accompanying your younger sibling to a movie is fun, in that you don’t really want to do it but you accidentally start liking it a little bit at one point. (Also, a boat may have capsized. Attractive guys may have been Super Soaked. A little girl may have been unintentionally kicked by… um, me.)

That being said, I have many mosquito bites in odd, inconvenient places, like my kneecap and this part of my back that I just can’t reach. I must invest in a back scratcher. Until then, I have this spatula.

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