One morning recently I was taming the Tina Turner from my hair with my professional-grade 400 degrees ceramic flat iron, all the while releasing into the air the gentle scent of…well…ironed hair. Which I suppose is not quite like burnt hair, but somewhere in the neighborhood.
Still in his pajamas, Vinja walked past my bathroom door on his way up to the kitchen. He came back a moment later, visibly crestfallen, and surveyed the aromatics with this nose.
[Sniff.] [Sniff.] “Dammit…[Sniff]…I thought someone was cooking bacon.”