I’m not talking baby curls but full-Jesus, gleaming-waxen-flaxen, back-to-the-sixties, personal-best lush. The waves of maturity. Gray to be sure. I’d considered adding a trace of beard that all the young guys sport, but then I’d look homeless. My wife goes to the hairdresser every six weeks for a color and cut. Essential for her self-esteem. She says that she doesn’t recognize me. I tell her to use her sense of smell. After all, our dog Max doesn’t bark at me because of my locks. The woman is just hair shaming me, pressuring me to see a barber. She doesn’t understand that long hair is freeing, opening up fresh lifestyle choices like actor or philosopher. Drama classes are possible, or I’ll buy a chiton tunic on eBay and head for the Agora.
My intransience caused her to purchase dog clippers. Staring at me, turning the shears over in her hand, her eyes became Delilah-lustful. Max succumbed to her grooming. After all, she’s potentate of his food bowl, so he can’t resist. I sense a quizzical jealousy in his eyes, wondering why I’ve not had to relent to her grooming. For him, my wife’s the alpha-female, and after him, I’m third in our pack’s pecking order. Time for Max and my wife to get with the program. With my mane, I’m now king of the beasts.
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