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.
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.
“Kip’s Kute Kurls” next?….
I did give her hot rollers, you can practice with those Kip.