Part In The Hair

One Easter Sunday when I was about 3 years old my parents took me to church. Being the messy kid I was, on the way to church every week I would some how destroy whatever outfit or hairstyle my mom would have given me that morning. Probably trying to climb out of the moving vehicle so I didn’t have to go to the boring Easter service.

Now my parents knew that I was a little over talkative for my age so they thought it would be safe if they gave bad words like fart, and butt, pee pee, alternative names, so when I said them out loud in public places no one would know what I was talking about.

They renamed butt-bump
They renamed pee pee – tinkle
And they renamed Fart-Part, which still sounds funny to me to this day.

This really set me apart from my friends at the baby sitter.

I would like to go back in time and listen to myself try to impress my friends by saying all of these dirty words that meant nothing to them.

“Hey Timmy, I just parted with my bump! Hahahahahah”

What is he talking about?

Back to Easter. We were walking down the hall in the First Baptist Church of Shelbyville, Kentucky I got my little pastel pink Polo shirt on with khakis and tiny little penny loafers, I was looking good. Most handsome 3 year-old in town. I’m walking down the hall pointing my finger and the 5 year-old girls saying what’s up ladies?

My mom is a very patient lady, probably the sweetest lady on earth, but I think this particular Sunday I was being a little crazy, and my hair was pretty messed up.
So my mom stops us in the hallway pulls a comb out of her purse and says

“Wes come here, I need to put a part in your hair.”

And apparently with a horrified look on my face I said
“Mom, Sick!”

I didn’t want my mom to part in my hair. That’s just a bad mental picture.

Still is