Haircuts

Is there something that you do that's childish? Immature? Absurd? And even though you know that you're being a terrible sport, you do it anyway? Like being snarky to department store underlings with no authority whatsoever, or maybe sending back beverages that are 2 degrees too cold? You should really get over yourself and just get along with people.

Just kidding.

I mean, you probably should be nice to underlings and accept slightly imperfect beverages without complaint, but I am in no position to judge you. Every three months I behave disgracefully. I am puerile, absurd, and an embarrassment to my wife and son. (Especially my wife.) I am a terrible sport about getting my hair cut. My Mom used to bribe me (and her other sons) into the tonsuring chair with the promise of chocolate chips afterwards. Then I went to college, and there are lots of pictures of my college days in which I'm sporting a completely unruly bird's nest. (I don't actually remember how/when I got my hair cut in college...maybe my Mom snuck into my apartment and did at night.) J and I got married, and for reasons of "appearing presentable" I was asked to visit the barber's every few months. I was not good at following through on this request.

For one thing, we were newly married and quite overwhelmed with the hectic pace of our single-job no-children no-responsibilities extended honeymoon. That, and I didn't want to leave the house very often when we lived in the freezing tundra of North Chili and I had a cute wife to keep warm at home. The mop continued to grow, however, and J decided to save us money/take control of the hair-cutting decisions by purchasing a home hair-cutting kit.

This would be a great opportunity for an anecdote about how she botched my haircuts but because of our newly found connubial bliss I forgave her. Actually, though, she gave good haircuts from the start. And I was a poor sport from the start.

"Roy, you're looking pretty scruffy. Why don't we give you a haircut tonight?"
"Hmm...do we have to do it tonight? How about we wait until the weekend?"
"We're going to be in Pennsylvania this weekend."
"Well okay, we can just do it the weekend after that."
"That's what you said two weekends ago."
"Hm."
...
"So, we'll give you a haircut tonight?"
"No, I think we should relax tonight. Let's worry about the haircut some other time."

This would go on for several weeks until J was positively insistent, and then I would moan and complain the entire time about all the other things I'd rather be doing and how I didn't want to sit still for 20 minutes without anything to do ("Why don't you talk to me?" "Because you should be concentrating on cutting my hair.") and how the hair was scratchy on the back of my neck and I didn't want to have to take another shower later, because that was wasting water.

Over time, however, I grew to see how childish my behavior was, and I decided that I'd accept haircuts with dignity and patience.

Actually, I'm just as bad or worse now. J has moved on from chocolate chip bribery to a conversation carte blance which promises she will talk about anything I want, including topics that she normally finds dull as dirt. (Note: This would be the time that I would use to talk about football if J was at all like the stereotypical wife who only tolerates Sunday afternoons. My wife, however, is awesome, and loves football just as much as I do...thus we don't need to use carte blanche time to talk about the Bills.) We talk philosophy and theology and languages, and she is always very sincere in her interest. She will have a conversation about anything.

And still, I'm a terrible sport the next time the haircut comes around. So now it's 8:17 on a Thursday night, and I'm waiting for her to get back from a concert, knowing that tonight is the fateful night when I'll have to give up twenty whole minutes of my precious time to sit in a chair and talk with my wonderful wife about Billy Budd and/or the Hebrew numbers I'm supposed to be memorizing with Calvus and/or sex. I really have it rough.

J actually did have a pretty rough day today. She was supposed to go to a playdate with her Thursday ward and our cool new Australian friend (the ward's mother) but our brand-new-to-us shiny red PT Cruiser pooped out a mile down the highway, and she was stuck in an unheated car with a un-napped baby for 45 minutes until I could renew our membership with AAA and a friend of ours could pick them up. No word yet on the severity of the Cruiser's illness, but this will be the first major repair we've put into it since bidding adieu to the Sexy Beast, our hideously ugly but indestructible '95 Buick Century. Updates to follow.

While she was gone I took out the vacuum cleaner to see if James' paralyzing fear of it had abated at all. As soon as he saw it he ran sobbing to the door and tried to pry it open. I put it away immediately, and when I came back to the foyer he was trying to hide in the closet. I might be a terrible father.

Question for anyone with literary insight: Is snuck a word? (As in, perfect of sneak?) Blogger's auto-correct is telling me that it isn't.

J just walked in and started singing"The Barber of Seville." I'm off to meet my fate.