Whose hair is it, anyway?

Joe is lucky when it comes to getting his hair cut, because his haircut has to be approved by only one person: me. I, on the other hand, have to submit plans for approval of my haircut, well in advance of the appointment, to three people: Joe. Myself. The stylist.

Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.

"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."

"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."

"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."

I assured him a note was not necessary.

"Or picket outside the place maybe?"

"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."

He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."

"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."

I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.

When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.

"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.

"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."

"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."

I assured her I thought he would notice that.

She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.

But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.