Bill's Musings

Now that we’ve been re-introduced to each other, and are practically family, I feel that I can now broach a subject which, to me, has all the drama and horror of the best Alfred Hitchcock (or, today, Rob Zombie) thriller.

Hair.

Bear with me.

Not my hair. I don’t have a lot, unless you count the aforementioned locks on the opposite side of my front. It is an inherited genetic phenomenon in my family that the men become ‘follicularly challenged’ at some point, and so, we must accept our fates. This some of us have done with the usual aplomb, celebrating our clean looks by wearing hats, bandanas, or, just ‘au naturel’. It’s all good.

There is a particular population among us, however, who suffer living with someone who happens to have nice hair. Not just ‘hair’, but ‘HAIR’, the kind that requires attention, effort, and….gasp….talking a lot about it. Oh, Lord.

In the morning, I get up, shower, and my hair is dry before I even shut the water off. It is actually a very liberating feeling. I look in the mirror, and ‘Eh!!’ I look away, satisfied that everything, such as it is, is in place. Ten minutes, tops.

When my wife tackles this task for herself, there are all kinds of procedures involved, some of which, to this day, remain secret even to me. There are dryers, straighteners, curling thingies, various shampoos and conditioners, a plethora of brushes, combs, and things I don’t dare describe for fear of sounding odd. It is a veritable morning pilgrimage just to leave our house.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I truly appreciate the effort she puts into looking good. I love her hair. It is one of the primary reasons I was attracted to her in the first place. Redheads are all they claim to be – fiery, hot-tempered, tumultuous, deadly….and that’s just the good stuff! But when it comes to actually talking about the hair procedure, I get that ‘deer in the headlights’ look, and run straight for the hills.

Allow me to demonstrate. Pretend, if you will, sitting on a nice, relaxing chair. You are watching, oh, football or hockey, a movie perhaps. Sipping a cold one. Then the bomb drops. ‘I am getting my hair done Saturday….’, you hear. A slight sweat forms on your brow, a chill runs down your spine. Nausea sets in. Your nervous-system cries out to you, ‘RUN’ it screams!!

You know, of course, it is too late. You actually never had a chance. At best, you could hope for the phone to ring, or maybe someone falling down the stairs so that you can call 911. The remainder of the conversation is painful, excruciating even. My only defense at this point is to put my hands to my ears and say, ‘La-la-la-la-la-la-la, not listening, not listening, awooooooga, red alert, beeeeeep’. All to no avail, because, once the subject has been opened, closing it is like closing Pandora’s Box.

We have to discuss length. We have to discuss style. We need to go into ‘shades’ now, as we age and our natural colours are vague. Products will need to be purchased. Various tools procured. Time will have to be set aside to assess the hopefully successful procedure. Coffee and chocolate will become necessary if deemed a ‘failure’. Psychological help may become necessary. For me, for the children, for the neighbours. The dogs will need to hide, if they’re smart. Whole neighbourhoods will need to be cordoned off to prevent fatalities.

We, as a couple, are fortunate that Anne has a first-class hairdresser. I have been married 19 years, and have yet to devise a successful way to deal with this subject. Perhaps, one day, I will become rich, have an infomercial on television with the ‘5 easy steps’ solution to this age-old problem. A daunting task, to be sure.