My husband has ringworm.
Ok, not really, but that’s what he’s claiming.
Let me explain.
My husband and I are very different. He’s a country boy and I’m a city girl. His ideas of necessities include bullets, beef, and beans. My list is more practical and includes haircuts, oil changes, and trips to the bookstore. My husband is a “we’ll make it work” kind of guy and I’m a “if I can’t do it right the first time, what’s the point” kind of gal.
Makes for interesting viewpoints around the house.
Well, hubby decided that his hair was a bit long. In the past he’s asked me to cut his hair, and I’ve politely turned him down — usually by pretending not to hear him ask or by suddenly remembering an errand I needed to run. He’s even purchased one of those Wal-Mart clipper things with all the fancy attachments in an attempt to persuade me.
And every few weeks, my loving, persistent husband would ask. Taking his cue from our teenage daughter, yesterday he had finally asked so often that I agreed.
I really thought, how hard can this be? He only wants a trim, right? And this razor thing is supposed to be foolproof — at least that’s what the picture on the box said.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. There’s a reason people go to school to learn to cut hair. My husband is now living proof of that reason.
We put a towel on the floor to catch the clippings, hubby sat in a chair and I got started. The buzz of the clippers sounded and I lowered it to his head.
Do you have any idea how dumb a 40-year-old man looks in a reverse Mohawk? I do now.
My first thought was “I can’t believe he talked me into this.” Followed shortly by “Maybe I can still even it out.” I still can’t believe he talked me into it and yes, at that point it could have been evened out.
But I didn’t stop there. It would have been better if I had.
I got the top of the man’s head evened out and started working on the back. OK, truth be told, it had some mullet-type qualities (think “Dog, the Bounty Hunter), but a fashion guru my Texan-born and bred husband is not. I was pretty sure he didn’t know what a mullet was, let alone what it looked like. I started on the back, trying to calm the mullet-like qualities of the butcher job… I mean, haircut.
Finally, I was finished with the big stuff. His hair wasn’t perfect, but it was cut.
I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in public with him and our teenage daughter wouldn’t be any more embarrassed by dad.
Then I noticed that one stray hair.
“One little clip,” I thought, “then it will be over.”
There must have been some Earth tremor right at the moment I lowered the clippers. The next thing I knew there was a clipper-sized chuck of hair falling to the ground from about an inch above his ear.
I was shocked. Short of shaving it all off, this one couldn’t be hidden.
I had a momentary thought that maybe he wouldn’t notice. It is on the side of his head and my husband isn’t always the most perceptive person.
I told him I was done — in more ways than one! — and he sauntered into the bathroom to take a look at my handiwork. All my delusions came shattering down when he yelled. Profanities. Loudly.
He’d seen the side of his head.
So, rather then admit he pestered me into giving him a haircut, he’s claiming ringworm. In his mind that’s a better explanation. He also claims to be cured.
Maybe that means he’s been cured of his pestering.
Somehow, though, I doubt it.