Something Different

July 4, 2010


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.

3 Comments for this entry

  • lois says:

    It could be worse. She might have wanted you to roll it up in curlers & that is a lot of work. A friend of
    ours husband rolled up her hair every week & they were
    married about fifty years.

  • Dad says:

    “Kip’s Kute Kurls” next?….

  • Cassandra says:

    I did give her hot rollers, you can practice with those Kip.

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