Well, I finally did it! After 26 months of hirsute happiness, I’ve sheared the flowing locks that graced and secluded my phrenologist’s paradise. “She, who is always obeyed” finally had enough when a hurried, harried and distracted food server at Smokey Bones sprinted over to our table and queried, “Would you two ladies like something to drink?” ‘Twas third time in as many months that I’ve been mistaken for a lass. My Samson-like strands were unfurled, of course, but when I pull them back into a ponytail, I’m followed around in stores by security personal and harassed by the Po-Po at sobriety checkpoints. (Really, if I were going to shoplift and/or drink and drive, I’d have a nondescript do! Wouldn’t you?) So, I went to Dollar General this afternoon and bought an 18-piece haircut kit for 15 bucks. I was going to pull a Yul Brynner, but Sweety pronounced a big ixnay on the baldway, and I trimmed it down to 5/8 inch with the #5 comb guard.
I know! I know! You think I’m pussy-whooped! But that’s patently untrue. My wife rarely tries to impose her will, and when she does her reasons are righteous! As far as blocking my shaved-head maneuver, she intuitively knew my next move would have been to acquire a tatt on the back of my skull. Imagine the scrutiny that would elicit in the real world.
Nice thing about cutting your own hair is that it grows back and the shoemaker’s handiwork will repair itself.
I didn’t avoid the barber because I’m cheap. I avoided the barber because, well, I looked like a bum. I was embarrassed. I got myself into this tangled mess, so I had to get myself out of it.
Did I learn a valuable lesson? Check back with me in another 26 months!