Taken in a place with no name (See more photos or videos here)
All it took to set him off was one single hair. Human, animal, synthetic – didn’t matter.
If it was in or near his food, that was it – he stopped eating. Pushed his plate away, made his repulsed face and, often as not, dressed down the wife for her sloppy habits in the kitchen.
If the hair was on his clothing, he would change. Immediately. And, often as not, dress down the wife for her lousy skills with the laundry.
If the hair was on the furniture, he would leave the room. The wife would take the point about her awful housekeeping.
Through it all she kept her own long black hair twisted tight in a high round bun.
The kids made fun of it. God knew why. But they found that mound of hair atop her head ridiculously funny. One of their favourite games was to sneak up behind her with something long and skinny like a pencil and… for simple amusement… impale the bun, running it through like the loser in a sword fight.
Sometimes she’d feel the intrusion and swat at the offending child while the others laughed. Other times she had no clue, and that made the children laugh even harder.
She took her hair very seriously. Once a week, she washed it, combed it out and rolled it up with bobby pins and pink foam curlers with rectangular plastic snaps. Her hair had always been stick straight, and she liked it curly. Not that anyone saw. As soon as the pins and foam came out, the hair was quickly re-bunned. And that was it. Till the next week.
When it was loose, it fell almost to her waist.
It made her feel young and girlish and coquettish.
Her husband glowered. “You look like a fucking Indian,” he said one time, after she had touched up her grey and gone, by accident, a bit too dark.
Another time he told her it made her look old… all that long hair, dragging down her face.
Another time, moved to kindness by her birthday or some such occasion, he offered to spring for a trip to the salon, so she could “finally get it done properly.”
And he was constantly finding hairs, and removing them from wherever… and making a great drama of it… extending an arm in super-slow motion, and widening his eyes in horror and revulsion as he demonstrated the sickening length of each and every find.
He had no idea how much these comments and demonstrations of disgust hurt her. How they undermined her sense of worth, her self esteem, her very sense of woman-ness. Long hair, to her, was synonymous with beauty and femininity.
To him it was a pain in the ass. A cross to bear. A health hazard.
And so she expected he’d be pleased (maybe even delighted) when she had it cut.
She went to a neighbour, a woman who made extra money for her family by doing people’s hair; self-taught, she called herself. They did it in her kitchen, with dirty dishes and dustballs and crumbs for witnesses. Partway through… with one side short, the other hanging wet and lank… the hairdresser ran to the dining room, shouting apologies, to take her naked toddler off the table, where the kid had been sliding, crotch down. There was wailing and struggling and a few minutes passed.
The wife sat alone and looked at her two different sides in the mirror – short-haired, long-haired. She thought the husband had been right after all. The long hair really did add years.
She smiled as the scissors resumed their slow chop-grind through the thick heavy bunches of her hair.
Afterwards, the hairdresser offered to blow it dry. At first the wife resisted. She wanted to go straight home and put it up in pins and rollers. But she told herself, “No – this is the New Me, the Modern Me, and the New Modern Me will embrace this new, electric technology and be on the cutting edge of fashion.”
So she got the curling iron, too.
The hairdresser rolled the wife’s hair under, all the way around, like a circle of sausage. It swung and shone when she moved her head. It looked so different. And it felt so light. And the wife thought, “I look so young!”
The hairdresser offered coffee and cookies to celebrate. The wife accepted. Then she glanced at the dining room table where the coffee things were being laid out, and remembered… no, not a surface she would like to eat from. She made an excuse about being pressed for time, paid the woman, and walked back home.
She couldn’t wait to show her husband. Tried on four or five different outfits that afternoon, seeking one that would show off her hair to best advantage.
She made his favourite dinner. Hamburgers and mashed potatoes. Sang a little song as her hands worked the speckly meat and breadcrumbs and seasonings into neat round patties.
The kids came home from school. “Wow!” they said. “You look great, Mom!” and “Wait till Dad sees – boy oh boy, is he gonna love it!”
She asked the kids not to say anything to Dad. They agreed. And soon he was home.
The wife stole one last glance at herself in the mirror as he walked in the door.
He said nothing beyond the usual “Hi” and “Damn am I tired” and of course “What’s for dinner?” He smiled when she told him hamburgers and mashed potatoes. But that was it. He didn’t say a thing about her appearance. She figured he was waiting till later… maybe after the kids were in bed. Then he’d show her how impressed he was.
But bedtime came and went and… nothing. Not a word about the hair from the husband.
She waited and waited. And hoped and hoped. But... nothing.
Finally she went and stood before him in the living room, straightening up, making her neck long, sure he couldn’t possibly avoid seeing such a dramatic change. The hair now curled just below her ears… a good 18 inches shorter than it had been.
“Notice anything different?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re in my way. I’m trying to watch the game. Do you mind?”
All the buoyant joy she’d felt drained from her in an instant.
Deflated, stunned, sick… she turned and walked away.
In the hallway she stopped, leaned against the wall. And cried. Silently but hard.
She put one hand to her puffing face, and wiped at her eyes and nose and, without even meaning to, felt her hair. Her bouncy swingy pretty young hair. She felt like an idiot. Felt like the stupidest woman in the world, having gotten her hopes up.
And then she heard the sound of springs.
And the TV clicking off.
And slow heavy footsteps.
He was coming to her.
She slumped with relief. Then smiled. Straightened up. Wiped her eyes again. Smoothed her sausage curls. Filled with a new wave of hope and excitement.
And then he stopped.
He was behind her. Not saying anything.
She could hear him breathing.
She turned around. Smiling.
“I’m going to watch in the bedroom,” he said. “There’s a fucking hair on the couch.”
No comments:
Post a Comment