Ten Seconds of Terror

Steve and I spent the weekend out of town, celebrating some family birthdays. There were two kinds of cake, both with a cool whip topping. I preferred the chocolate cake, and I ate many small pieces after dinner while pretending that I wasn't actually eating more cake. Before getting ready for bed, I had one more piece (which didn't count, of course) that I gleefully consumed by hand in a kitchen romantically lit by the open refrigerator. 

The following morning, I scrutinized my reflection in the bathroom mirror and noticed a large streak of platinum gray in my hair. I've been finding the occasional gray hair for three years - yes, I still vividly remember the first time - but this was a streak of epic proportions and had developed overnight. Panicked, I leaned in closer for a better view.

My hair wasn't platinum at all, just coated with a streak of dried cool whip from last night's cake.

Cool whip in my hair. 

I sighed and brushed it away. I vowed to never eat cake by hand in a dimly lit kitchen right before bed ever again. My nerves can't stand another jolt like that.