Hair, Chapter 2: His


While I’ve shelled out how often for haircuts, not so my husband. Only once that I remember, in all our years, has he visited a barber.

He’d gotten fired from his teaching position. (The story is here. Also here.) Now he was job hunting. Maybe we thought his interview coming up in some hillbilly hick county in South Central PA demanded an upgrade in his presentation—more sleight and polish.

He came home from the barbershop looking like a skinned rat.

It must’ve frightened the bosses in the county office. No job offer resulted.

Generally I just do an all-around hack job. I swipe at the lone wisps up on top waving in their glassy sea of nakedness. I prune the rampant shag in back. I nip at his neck scruff, careful not to proceed on down past his collarbones, as I like man hair.

I’ve thought about a buzz cut, but we’re both dubious. Would he be him, anymore?

(Film footage by him. Layering—Ray Stevens—by Grandgirl.)





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