I don’t know about you but during a quarantine my scissors become Disney Animated, talking to me.
It’s no wonder the classic children’s book, Brenda’s Beaver Needs a Barber is making its rounds on social media. Everyone needs a haircut.
Have you, like me, been watching the news not for updates on the COVID counts and the impending doom of our world but for seeing whose hair is a disaster? I’m talking to you, Savanah Guthrie.
Knowing that judgey people like me exist in this world, I’ve decided we should not look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away when we come out of our Hidey holes someday.
Enter The Husband. One would think after I convinced him in the 90’s that he should let me put some temporary hair dye on his hair, he would’ve learned his lesson. The hair dye was not only permanent it was, how do they say it? So black it was blue? He was asked by a colleague if he’d discovered the fountain of youth.
He’s a kind man because he didn’t beat me then. And a trusting man because here we go again.
I have been aching to cut his hair for 25 years. Now was my chance. Daily I chimed, “Wow. What’s gonna happen to you in six weeks?” “You look like Bernie Sanders.” “Holy momma, that’s some CRA-ZEE hair.” I finally got to him. The first time I cut gently and not much. One could say I was “grooming” him for the bigger kill. He liked it so much he asked me to do it again. The third time he emerged looking a bit too Mike Pencey. But still cute. Ain’t he a doll?
Coming off of my final professional haircut in early March which just so happened to be the worst fucking haircut of my life, I could only make my own hair better. With my scissors egging me on, I’ve been nipping at it day and night (‘cause I don’t have Netflix). I have gone from Wayne’s World to a more mild but definite Mullet. And I like it. My sister Rebekah said, “Yes. Yes. A mullet makes perfect sense when wearing a face mask.” I’m owning it.
Now if I could just quiet down that talking wall in the bathroom I’ve been wanting to remove.