In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn’t merely try to train him to be semi-human.
The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog. – Edward Hoagland
Told the She-Genius, I realize now, men convinced women that long hair was their ‘glory’ as a form of subjugation.
It’s in the Bible, she responded. I rested my case, without even mentioning high heels.
The long hair makes you look older, she said, appealing to my vanity. Like I’m vain or something. Like I could ever be susceptible to her wily psychological ploys.
Older is my big goal in life.
Twenty-one months since my last trip to a barbershop. 21. My wife wants my hair cut, I’m tired of it and, well, actual thought-process, there’s a narrow window of opportunity before the Omicron variant gets here. Not just the alligators and the red tide and the pythons and golf carts to worry about in Florida.
Right about then, a buddy posts on social media about this great haircut at the Black Magic Salon. I comment ‘you look nice’ – hell, I looked nice at 35 – and mentioned I was thinking about making the bold move. Next coincidence, he said he’d pay for the cut if I surrendered my pelt to the Black Magic Salon.
Every man has his price – mine is ‘free.’ All about the freedom.
You are free to wear your mask at the Black Magic Salon, which I was assured was “Dr. Fauci-approved.”
And when, through a cataclysm of mishaps, my buddy couldn’t cover the bill, my generous wife offered to. Life is good.
Next thing you know Janisa’s phone is writing back and forth with my phone and there are rules. I just glanced at them, got scared and gave myself an extra fifteen minutes to arrive on time.
Alone. Alone, because my wife looked at me like, what kind of woman would take two hours out of her life to watch her husband get his hair cut. Sounded boring. I could see her point – she is the She-genius, after all – but now I am personally paying with my own money for the most expensive haircut in my life.
All the walls are black and there are shiny skulls and incense and gothy stuff was worried might hex me if I touched them. Good tunes overhead.
A 5’ 10 1/2” young blonde lady was getting her long tresses trimmed by a slender woman in spiked purple hair. Her platform heels had platform heels.
Mr. Dog?
Janisa??
Showed her some photographs of hairstyles for which I had permission. [see above.]
Gave her my instructions – No fluffy tail, no Silvio Dante side-wings, enjoy.
Enough hair you could just grab it like a pony’s behind and snip. Took three punches on the scissors.
Then I jabbered away while Janisa worked her Black Magic. Apologized for going on and on like an old man who doesn’t get out of the house and hasn’t been this close to a woman other than his wife since his last hospital stay. Ha! Didn’t tell her that, that would’ve been stupid. What I told her was – fresh audience – a few old stories, which, let’s face it, most of mine are. Hers were all new to me, too.
Praise Jesus!
Hot, in the way, always demanding attention, blocking my vision, long hair reminds me of my second ex-wife.
Feel like a sheepdog rescued by a non-kill shelter who arranged to have the old matted disheveled mess put back together again.
Damn, it’s true. I do look younger.
I feel younger.
