Hair has been a distraction to me for my entire life. My do usually didn’t. In grade school I sat next to Carol Dumphey who could receive the brunt of a tornado and come out with every single hair exactly where it should be. On the other hand, I could sit in a hermetically sealed mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnall’s back porch and my hair would still sproing like a too tightly wound guitar string.
Over the years, in order to reduce my frustration, I have developed a wash and go style which includes getting a haircut only when-I-can-no-longer-stand-the-length. No scheduled appointments every two weeks for me. To me, this makes for a dramatic change in my appearance between when I walk into the beauty parlor in contrast to how I look like when I walk out. I don’t get trims; I get inches cut.
Evidently this isn’t obvious to Husband of more than twenty-seven years.
He has two reactions to my tonsorial changes. I’m not sure which I prefer.
The first is to say absolutely nothing. I’m convinced it is actually because he has gotten so absorbed in something (a video game, a TV show, a fire call, etc.) that his brain has been wiped clean of my whereabouts.
The second routine has developed over the years as a result of my vocal frustrations that he hadn’t noticed what, to me, couldn’t be missed.
I would return from the beauty parlor, take no more than two steps past the front door and hear Husband, in a very deliberate but robotically stilted voice say, “Gee, mom. Your hair. Sure looks. Nice.”
At least he was trying – very trying.
Recently, I did something for only the second time in twenty years. I got my nails done. The winter was unbelievably tough on my nails. I needed professional help. I made an appointment with a nail salon.
While there, I made a daring decision. “Do you have green?” She did.
My nails complimented my wardrobe and cane. I left the salon with a confident strut. That strut lead me through our front door to hear Husband’s the dulcet vocal tones, “Gee, mom. Your hair. Sure looks. Nice.”
I laughed resoundedly as I turned to face him, “That’s all well and good except that I had my nails done.”
I didn’t let his conservatism deflate my feelings. After all, he’s lived with me for so many years his Christmas present to me several years ago was my green cane.
He had developed a way to acknowledge by beauty shop visits, he could find a way to deal with green nails.
It’s not like it’s a really disgusting color. Like pink.

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