Perhaps a few of you ladies about town have noticed my husband’s new haircut. Friday night in a fit of “I-used-to-be-cool-and-now-I’m-losing-my-hairline” angst – with a healthy dash of the kind of pent-up aggression that comes from not taking enough Me Time for oneself – he disappeared in the bathroom and took the scissors to his luxurious mane of reddish-brown curls. I have seen some bad haircuts in my time but this was excellent. Sort of Braveheart-esque in the choppy randomness, but without any cool Scottish braids or twigs and shit.
In about an hour’s time he really regretted this.
Yesterday he wore a hat or hood all morning then in the afternoon slunk out the house and went to a barber. He later related that the barber laughed so hard he had to hide his face in his hands. At any rate, it was so short in places that he only had two options: shaved entirely, or the “high and tight” choice of jarheads everywhere. So yeah, I’ve got a military-man döppleganger for a husband these days (at least it isn’t spiked – he kind of resembles Bigwig now, and I actually find it cute). First the Great ‘Stache Incident of a few weeks prior, now this. I wonder what he’s trying to say?
