So Tuesday morning, I’m getting ready for work and decide I am going to go all out on the hairdo front and straighten my naturally wavy and naturally rebellious hair. My hair is a weird kind of wavy, doing whatever the hell it wants with no discernible natural pattern in all directions, rather then the kind of Breck-girl wavy. (I think I just dated myself with that reference.)
Anyway, I dig out the big round brush and the hairdryer and go to work in a manner that makes me glad I am home alone,with only the dogs for an audience, because this is a complicated process that requires at least one more hand than I currently possess, and frankly, I’m not very good at it. That is, I get the job done, but the process ain’t pretty. It’s a lot like sausage-making in that way.
After about 10 minutes of fumbling with the brush, the dryer, dropping each at least once, getting the brush tangled in my hair, I finally got it smoothed out, spritzed, and ready to go out the door. I checked the clock to see if I had time for makeup, and the answer was no; the world can have hair or makeup from me on a weekday, but not both. I’m not willing to give up the sleep that commitment to performing beauty would require. But nonetheless, I left the house feeling mighty cute.
Not that anyone at work would’ve noticed. Not even people at work whom I’m married to.
Lunchtime rolls around and after I get the dogs out and Scott makes the lunch, we sit at the table. It should be said here that I am married to a wonderful man who just happens to be complimentarily challenged. We’ve discussed it before, and as I understand it, he frequently thinks I look mighty cute. The thoughts just never get formed into words that actually pass his lips within my hearing. So I make an accommodation for his marital handicap, and create opportunities for him to practice this very important skill. That way, I can feel adequately adored, and he can feel adequately not kicked in the shin and glared at. It’s win-win for both of us.
Meanwhile, back at the luncheon table…
“So, do you like my hair today?”
I ask these things, because a woman in love likes to please her man on occasion, and one way of doing that is figuring out what he likes and then maybe doing it on future occasions.
“Uh…sure. Is it different?”
“Isn’t it always?”
He asks these things because, evidently, he’s not actually looked at me in the 20 years we’ve been together.
“No; it’s wavy.”
“Well, I always see you in a ponytail.”
“Not at work you don’t.”
And then we went back to our sandwiches, and I pondered whether men actually notice anything above the neck.
Sources close to me indicate “no.”