But we still hadn't resolved the matter of the hairbrush.

When I was a little girl, I was fascinated by the objects my father pulled out of his pockets and placed on his dresser at the end of the day: a half-eaten roll of mints, a Chapstick with the label worn off, a comb and piles of change. I would touch all of these items, use the Chapstick and eat a mint if he weren't looking. On more than one occasion, I asked to use his comb. Dad said, "Don't use the comb--I have dandruff and I don't want you to catch it." Thus, I merely worshipped the comb from afar. I also thought that you could catch dandruff.

Guess who else had dandruff? Tom, that's who. I usually keep my hair long and I tend to buy a new brush every couple of years. The old ones don't wear out, but they get dirty, they're hard to clean and sometimes I just want a new style. Sometimes I get one that's not really suited to my type of hair (straight, fine, and abundant). The old brushes knock around in the bathroom cupboards for years until I finally get sick of seeing them and toss them in the trash. I had a couple of nice, lightly used, good quality brushes, which I offered to Tom. Of course, he never used a brush, just a comb, but I only had one comb and I didn't offer it to him. Because of the dandruff.

The same day we fought about the towel, he said, "Why can't I just use your brush?"

I said, "Don't you prefer using your own?"

"No. It's a pain."

"That's silly, it's right there in drawer You can use any of the brushes in there." I said.

He asked, "Why can't I use yours?"

"Look, I'd just prefer if you didn't."

"You're being selfish."

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