I know how it must have looked to the underwhelmed outdoor mall kiosk vendors.
A boisterous early-thirties couple with excellently-defined tan lines bumbling their way through the establishment with heavy footfalls, giggling uncontrollably and carrying the faint scent of island rum.
Oh, fantastic, they observed. More drunk tourists.
I knew this because even in my heightened state of awesomeness, my keen ninja senses saw them willing themselves not to roll their eyes, especially when we slurred the following greeting to an unsuspecting swimwear clerk:
“I’m a mother of twins. I don’t want to look sexy anymore. I want to cover my butt. What do you have for that?”
“She just wants a sarong. Is that so wrong?”
Come on, bikini merchant, crack a smile. Can’t you see that we’re hilarious?
Besides, we don’t get out much, and if you walked a mile in our flip flops, you’d be lit up and hilarious tonight, too.
. . .
We’d taken off running as soon as we left the room, punctuating the dash with cartwheels, somersaults, and triple sow-cow double axle lutz mocha frappuccino flips as we hit the coast, where we were joined by the animated woodland creature cast of Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves who belted George Michael’s “Freedom” from wide-open beaks and snouts, triggering fireworks and laser light shows as we made our escape.
My parents had volunteered to take the Twins for the night, thus affording my wife and me a rare opportunity–a date night in Hawaii.
We’d had an incredible few days manning the loinfruits during their every waking hour, but keeping an eye on each of them had not only been exhausting–it also left us no third eye with which to kick back and adequately “wowie” at the beauty of Maui.
And now was our chance.
We devoured freshly-caught Mahi Mahi and guzzled round after round of island cocktails as we watched the Maui sun began its glorious descent, digging our toes in the sand as it dipped into the blue horizon. We had a real, actual conversation uninterrupted by abrupt dashes towards little people while shouting “No, don’t touch that! Yucky.” We walked unencumbered by diaper bags, stuffties, strollers, and children raging against strollers. It was phenomenal.
And then my wife decided we should go shopping.
On the one hand (the left), like most husbands, the mere mention of shopping inspires unnecessarily loud groans on my part–but on the other hand (the right), if I have to go shopping, it is advantageous to do so under the influence of adult beverages, which deaden the anguish substantially.
And to my delight, Lady Luck showered me with four-leaf clovers, purple horseshoes, and other marshmallowy goodness, as a majority of the stores in the mall had already closed for the evening, leaving us to primarily harass vendors of mini-stores on carts (with absolutely no fitting room facilities–SCORE!).
After The Quest for the Perfect Sarong had fizzled out, we happened upon another cart boasting “Island Hair Wraps and Braids!” As soon as I saw it, I idiotically pointed it out to my wife, laughing at its ridiculousness. “Who would pay for that?”
To which my wife responded, “Oooh!” and before my sluggish reflexes knew it, she was inquiring, “How much?”
“Hair wraps are $35 and braids are $15,” replied the clerk/hair “expert”–who couldn’t have been older than 18–as she wrapped a patron’s hair with brightly colored thread.
At this point, I was already resigned to sucking it up and shelling out $35, but then my wife asked the unthinkable. “How long does the braiding take?”
How long does the braiding take? She wasn’t seriously considering paying a high school girl $15 to braid her hair, right?
“It takes about ten minutes.”
Ten minutes? $15 for ten minutes of work? That’s…
…15 times 6…carry the three…
That’s $90 an hour! For BRAIDING HAIR!
This nonsense needed to be stopped. There was no way I was going to allow my wife to pay a high school girl to braid her hair. Anybody can braid. Sure, I haven’t done it in decades, since friendship bracelets were all the rage, but there’s a reason there is no such thing as a braiding certification program or Doctor of Braiding Philosophy degree.
Which is why–at the risk of losing my man card–I gallantly declared:
“Babe, I’ll braid that sh!t for free.”
The four of us erupted in uncontrollable laughter. My wife delivered a playful slap on my shoulder as if to say “That was hilarious, but you just said the ‘S-word’ in the presence of minors.”
I never did wind up having to braid my wife’s hair, and I’m okay with that. I’m sure I’ll need to beef up my skills when my daughter’s hair is long enough, but for that night, I was in the clear.
“Hey, look!” I pointed as we made our way further down the walkway.
“What?” my wife replied.
“I think I see a place up there where I can get my toenails clipped for only $50.”
This is Part 5 of the TwinfaMaui Saga, which can beat up sparkling vampires with their own shoes.
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If not, at least this sh!t was free.