I was afraid that the girls were getting ready to flee, so I put out this bit of honey as an enticement to stay. (or, maybe to lure someone for a photo).
I finished building out the frames and installing the wax foundation for the new brood box. Kelly came home at lunch, suited up, lit the smoker, and opened up the hive. I, bravely wearing no protective clothes (well I was wearing clothing, but no bee gear), stood near by and took photos.
THREE GUESSES WHAT HAPPENED
I felt something in my hair and reached my hand back. It felt like there were about 50 bees in my hair. So, exercising the calm, modulated, cool reaction that I usually display, I began slapping at my head. OF COURSE, I got stung. Quite uncharacteristically, that caused me to go running screaming (probably unprintable words) into the house.
Whereupon, all the while worrying about the attacking hoard of bees I was introducing to the inner sanctum of our home, I cleverly put my head under the cold shower. Then I combed the offending insects out of my hair. In fact, the attacking hoard turned out to be just a single small, now dead, and drenched pitiful looking bee.
Much to my surprise, but not at all to Kelly’s, he finished up with the bees alone, entirely without my advice and consent.