I live with four men, a red tabby, a gray long hair, a brown Abyssinian, and a black and white short hair. This guarantees that no matter what I wear, cat hair will be the dominant color. Statement jewelry is so last year; at the House of Felis Domesticus, cat hair is the new must-have accessory. And it’s not a bad thing; it’s simply the price of feline fellowship, like finding a cat hair in your coffee. It’s amazing how one little cat hair in your mouth feels like the Trans-Atlantic cable.
I’m sad that non-cat owners will never experience the calming yin and yang of picking white cat hair off black pants, a little-known stress reliever that far exceeds the mind-clearing benefits of transcendental meditation and requires no pretzel-like positions or lip-tingling chants.
Though fair warning, if you’re invited to my house, wear black at your own risk. My sister once wore black pants and then compounded the mistake by sitting in the cat’s favorite chair. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice until we were walking into Wolfgang Puck’s. “Why is everyone staring?” she whispered. “It’s probably because we’re two hot blondes,” I lied. There’s just no tactful way to tell a woman that her bottom resembles a fur-lined toilet seat.
I’ve developed a de-furring ritual, which must be performed daily. Any lapse will result in full-body furry-fanny, like a groomer who’s just shaved twelve Persians for the summer. That’s why I visited one of the finer Dollar stores and purchased a boatload of sticky rollers, which are now strategically placed in my home and car. Why my car? you may ask. Simple. That’s due to the Law of Fur Affinity, which states that the lure of cat hair to cloth upholstery is stronger than the earth’s gravitational pull and capillary attraction combined. Need proof? Look at my car seats; there’s enough fur to build an entire cat.
Before I leave the house for important meetings, my husband grabs a sticky roller and says, “Assume the position.” That’s my cue to bend over so he can de-fur the sensitive places that I can’t see because I’m not a contortionist with Cirque du Soleil.
One day, in a temporary lapse of judgment, we performed this ceremony in front of a friend of mine. With her face as red as baboon’s bottom, she asked, “What is this? Some sort of kinky foreplay?” It didn’t help when I said, “Yes, could you give us a few minutes?”
Excuse me while I fantasize, because I can see it now. My husband wearing nothing but a towel, his freshly-washed hair dripping down his neck, forging a path down his manly chest. “Honeybuns,” he says, arching a seductive brow. “Meet me in the bedroom, and . . . bring the sticky roller.”
Oh, I’m sorry, back to the point. To us cat lovers, loose hair flying about is just a minor inconvenience, because while the hair is attached to the cat it forms the softest pillow you’ll ever sleep with. And it purrs. What could be better than that? Except for maybe a little sticky-roller action.