Hair

Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I wish I had been born as a boy.

Scandalous, I know, but just listen: I am so envious of my husband's ability to cut his own hair with the $23 clippers bought at Target or somewhere equally as frugal, versus my trips to the salon for attempting the perfect blonde highlights and a sassy bob. Now, I realize there are places to get a cheapie haircut and highlight job, but one chunky-zebra-stripe experience and jagged "feathered edge" later, and I was done with that. For life. Month after month, he taunts me with the "Haircare" expense comparisons, and if it were some sort of sporting competition I would be the constant loser. 0-44. To infinity.

It's such a simple process for him:
Step One: Doff shirt
Step Two: Stand in shower
Step Three: Load whatever-appropriate-number guard onto clippers
Step Four: Buzz head
Step Five: Rinse off
Step Six: Look fabulous

It just is NOT. FAIR. Why was I born with dirty-dishwater colored hair the consistency of duck down? Deep, in my heart of hearts, I know I was meant to be blonde. Glowing, sun-kissed, flowing in the wind, blonde.

I remember the day when I had the courage to show him the receipt for the first time after coming back from a haircut/highlight. We had just gotten engaged and I was feeling the need to share with full disclosure concerning this area before "'til death do us part." The poor boy had no idea what was coming, being born into a family of four brothers.

"So what do you think of my hair?" as I shake my newly highlighted head back and forth, wafting the fragrance of apple-scented shampoo charmingly to his nose.

"Umm, it looks great. Is there something different?" He looks at me nervously, like he's sitting for an exam but can't remember what class it's for.

"I just got it cut. Don't you like how it looks?" Batting my eyes and sidling up close to him, I reach into my purse and pull out the receipt and hold it, crumpled, in my hand. "Having a good haircut really makes me feel nice, it does wonders for a girl's self esteem."

He freezes, realizing I am going somewhere with this.

"So, let's play a little guessing game. How much do you think it cost?" My heart beats quickly, knowing that my poor future husband is in for a blow. Imagine a young George Bailey, from It's a Wonderful Life, and you won't be far from the mark.

"Ok, how about $25?" he says. Poor, poor boy.

I slowly raise my hand and show him the receipt. "No. That's how much we tip them."

A look of speechless horror passes across his face, as he gazes down at the wrinkled piece of paper. My face is hot and flushed, I am blushing with shame and awaiting his final judgment.

"Huh. So how often do you have to do this, once a year?"

"Nooo, more like once every six to eight weeks." I blink quickly, my mind feverishly scrambling to think of a compromise that will help make this newfound knowledge more palatable. "But, I think I can stretch it to once every three months. Would that be ok?"

He sighs heavily and looks down at my red face and newly blonde hair. "Is it really important to you?"

"Oh yes, oh yes! I can't even explain what it feels like when I walk out of there, like I'm a new person!"

The look he gives me is tinged with despair, as understanding sinks in that this is a battle he lost before even beginning to fight.

I'm waiting for the day when someone comes up with a pill to change your hair color. Sign me up for a lifetime's prescription.

Sigh.