The Pony got off the bus at Newmentia this afternoon, and trotted up to my desk to tell a tale of middle school hijinx. I surveyed his appearance to discern whether he might have brought embarrassment to the Hillbilly family today. Like that time he snagged his shirt about six dozen times from when I dropped him off in the morning until the bus hauled him back to me at the end of the day.
"What's that on your knees, dirt? Have you been crawling around on the floor? What did you do in PE today? Can't you even clean up?"
"Uh. That's hair. Leg hair."
"On your knees? Who are you, Harry, new friend of the Hendersons?"
"I don't get it."
"It was just a movie. With a bigfoot kind of guy. I can't believe you have hair on your knees!"
"Uh huh. Look at it! It's growing."
"I can see that. It's curling over your socks. But normally, people don't have hair on their knees."
"But I do! Look!"
Yes. My thirteen-year-old is growing hair on his KNEES. That is just not right. I fear for his future back.