What’s on my mind?
I went to bed with Himself and woke up with Little Lord Fauntleroy. Two weeks later, I went to bed with Little Lord Fauntleroy and woke up with Einstein. Two weeks after that, I went to bed with Einstein and woke up with a man whose hair was so long, I mistook him for a landing strip.
Does no one get their hair cut, anymore? No, they do not. Why? You already know why.
Many years ago, when Himself was young and innocent (something I have never been), I begged him to let me cut his hair, promising: “Think of all the money we’ll save!”
We’d been wasting money on such fripperies as groceries and the electric bill, so I persuaded Himself it might be nice to have some moolah to call our own. I cinched this persuasive argument with the words: “Diane cuts her husband’s hair, and he always looks great!” (It’s a piffle, but - having never met the guy - I couldn’t pick Diane’s husband out of a lineup of one.)
Himself, vaguely aware of the name “Diane,” assumed she was one of my top 100 friends, 97 of whom are creditors. In fact, Diane is my friend, but she’s also my hair stylist. I didn’t mention that little detail when I got out the electric clippers.
“Just a little off the top,” he said. (“And the sides and the back,” I thought.)
BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZT!!!
“Whazzat?” Himself is the suspicious type. As he should be.
I immediately began laughing. I do that when I get nervous. After the clippers slipped, I was very, very nervous.
Like magic, the giant hole the clippers ripped through his comb-over shone like a mirror. With no way to patch it, I tried to “even it out.” The hair curling softly above left his ear vanished. I had no choice but to do the same (BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT! BZZZZZT!) for the right. I was channeling Edward Scissorhands, now.
The slice at the back of his head (OMG, the ba-a-ack!!!) exposed bare skin as wavy hair and skin rose and fell, my nervous laughter creating a jagged Plimsoll line.
Trying to appear everything was routine, I yawned: “Wanna see it in the mirror?” Himself is the “No, thanks!” type. I figured this would buy me some time.
“Damn well right, I want to see it!”
This was unexpected. I dropped the clippers and ran. Five years on, Himself still won’t let me cut his hair.
Our COVID lock-down means Diane and I haven’t seen one another in nearly six months.
You know in the movies, when a woman on the lam tries to disguise her appearance by cutting her own hair? Whether she uses cuticle scissors, pinking shears, a bread knife, or an electric hedge trimmer, the result always looks spectacular. Now that Diane’s AWOL, I’ve been using exactly those tools to cut my hair, and it always looks like ... (CENSORED! Children may be listening to you read-aloud types!)
I’ve quit trying to cut my hair. Long hair looks fine on me ... Fine! Okay ... Semi-fine. I’ve been wearing it in the bouncy ponytail the candles on my last birthday cake suggested I was too old to wear. Like 60 years, too old.
My hair’s almost always been short when I visit Diane. She goes snip-snip! and she’s done, so we chew the fat until her next client comes in:
“Ya know, Diane, I’ve bin feelin’ kinda sluggish, lately ... D’ya think I could be ... irregular?”
“Ya know, Nicole, I take this stuff ever’ night, b’ fore bed, an’ I feel like a kid, again!”
I miss Diane. The next time we meet (2021? 2022?), that ponytail’s gonna be pretty long. When I ask Diane’s opinion, she’s either going to say: “Keep it!” or “Cut it!” according to what she guesses I really want to do.
I look forward to that day. I’ll go away happy and Diane will be fondling a $50 bill and all will be right with the world.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
