For months I told her no, I won’t do it. But she kept at me, relentless like a predator. Just a little bit dear, I promise. It won’t take long. You can do it, it’s really easy, and then we’ll go get a beer afterwards, okay? Please?
No way, I said. Go get one of your overpriced salon queers to do it. I’m no hairdresser. But she wore me down. Which is why I found myself one Saturday afternoon wearing rubber gloves, a funny-shaped comb in one hand and a plastic bottle of purple goo in the other, coloring my wife’s hair. Life’s not fair.
But I have to admit, it came out pretty nice. And all those tubes of wonderful color, the conditioners and gels, the little plastic bowls and rigid rake-like combs, the chemical reek of it. Maybe it’s not such a bad job after all. And if I were a hairdresser, I could get paid to touch women’s hair, listen to pop music all day and count my jar full of tips at night; my only worry would be is if I left the dye in some rich old broad’s hair too long.
I find myself looking forward to the next touch of grey in my wife’s hair. Maybe we’ll try some highlights.