Mother had a diabolical plan: Lure me into complacency by letting me graze on the lawn, then swoop down and, under the guise of grooming me, WASH MY TAIL.
It was cold. Mother told me to be glad I wasn't getting my legs washed, too. Or getting the many stains she claims I have washed.
Vanity is an ugly thing.
So she scrubbied my tail head thoroughly, and made tchh-tchh sounds over the place that I rub on it. I have been rubbing that for over a year, Mother. Leave it alone.
She put the purple stuff all over the lower part of my tail. She let me sit awhile. She hosed it all off, then slathered purple-y conditioner all over it.
She combed through it, pulling out a few hairs, and then hosed all of that off, too. She muttered how my tail touches the ground dry; it was worse when it was wet. Should she hack some off? I tend to really lower my haunches during pasture time activities, and have been known to step on it and rip out hunks at a time.
She instead took pity on me and let me back out onto the grassy lawn. Yea!!
She swept up the hair my currying had left on the porch, muttering that springtime means grooming and being covered in hair and that the horse still looks just as hairy if not even worse when one finishes.
Well, at least your butt isn't wet, Mother.