The Dirt Field

When I was in high school, I worked at a small pet store that carried a wide assortment of animals, including the occasional chinchilla. These small squirrel-like animals have delightfully soft fur that feels marvelous if you stuff one under your shirt or down your pants.

I’m kidding.

In actuality, it probably would be fairly enjoyable, but I’ve never tried. The inappropriate factor aside, chinchillas have sharp rodent teeth that make nestling one next to tender parts of your anatomy a poor idea.

I’m getting off topic.

My favorite thing about these chinchillas was that they required regular dust baths. You’d find a dish roughly the size of a dinner plate, fill it with special chinchilla dust, and drop in the little animal. Within a moment, the chinchilla begins to writhe frantically in the dust, flipping and diving until the dust has removed all traces of oil and moisture from its fur. This process has got to be one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen; all that fine, sparkly dust flying as the furry little ball with feet rolls around.

The interesting thing is that the dust bath is all the chinchilla needs to restore vibrant silkiness to its fur. No water, no soap, no shampoo – just a hop in the dust. Which brings me to the real reason I’m talking about chinchillas: I overslept today and did not have time to wash my hair. Now I’m sporting a particularly messy updo that is glued together with sleep tangles and pillow grime. It’s sexy. And by sexy, I mean that birds tried to lay eggs in my nest of hair while I was walking the dog this morning.

So I’ve decided that in order to make it through the day, I need a dust bath. If it works for rodents, it works for me. And besides, the chinchilla in my pants is due for a dusting. Not that I have a chinchilla in my pants. Unless you do, too, in which case maybe we can talk about it.