As we saw last week, I am always in search of the perfect hair. Thus far it has eluded me, but we women are hopeful souls, believing in that which we cannot yet see. We also hope, for instance, that someday our men will take out the trash without being reminded, and before it has achieved hazardous materials status.
But even though the hair I do have is less than perfect, it is no unloved stepchild. It is washed and dried and rolled and teased. It is sprayed with various products (no animals having been harmed in the process, although Joe insists that their use is harming HIM), then sprayed with additional various products in case the first various products were not sufficient. After this lengthy ritual has been completed, the last thing I want anyone to do is mess up my hair.
Early on, Joe endorsed this, not understanding that it applied to him.
He would blithely and freely try to touch my hair. He would get within several inches of it, arms outstretched, and then --
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
"What was that?" he would say, startled.
The hair alarm has sounded. You are too close to the hair. Please step away from the hair.
"But I just want to --"
Mayday! Mayday! Intruder will not retreat!
"Oh, forget it," he would eventually mutter.
Sacrosanctity successfully preserved.
1 comment:
Husband for the none forcing of hair by mechanical or chemical means, but really really, disliking the chemical means the most - would like to formally disagree
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