Warning: To readers who wondered at yesterday’s not-always-family-friendly joke, today’s salty language may test your resolve. To readers who finish this post and wondered why there was a warning, you’re in the right place.
Yesterday, Megan cut her hair. Some of you are thinking, “Aw cute!” and similarly unhelpful things. Precious few of you will understand how deeply this wounds me.
I am the luckiest of men, however, in that my wife is one of those few. I love long hair. She gets it. I find it beautiful, she likes feeling beautiful…for us, it’s a win-win.
Jason! Wait! you cry. How did this tragedy befall such a happy union?
Because Megan is the luckiest of women (I like to think). Her husband is one of those few who gets it:
Long hair is difficult. Hassled. Tangled. Takes longer. In the way. Caught on something. Stuck beneath’s husband’s well-meaning-but-OW hand.
Megan is a no-nonsense, take-charge woman. Short hair is no-nonsense/take-charge/I’ve-got-shit-to-do/no-time-to-conjunct. Long hair is pretty-pretty princess mode, too proper to cuss, to polite to look efficient.
Yes, I really do get that. I’m not a neanderthal, ladies. It’s the juxtaposition that makes it attractive. Marrying the woman who works like a Doozer and looks like a trophy…that’s having it all, gents.
I get it. Thus, I will remind Megan that while I adore and appreciate her long hair, I know both how difficult it is, and how take-charge and independent she is. So uh–if–if uh…if she wants to cut it…*ahem* I guess. Um. *ahem* she can.
Oh, yeah, I totally get that, guys. I’m not looking remuneration. The short hair is great,
I even think it’s cute. But still, for awhile, I had it all.
Yesterday was a horrific day for me. I made stupid mistakes in front of colleagues. I thought that I had sent the wrong draft to some Very Important People (that one turned out okay). I fumbled 4th down on my own three yard line. I couldn’t buy gas on the way to work because I was late, I couldn’t buy it on the way home because I. didn’t. have. my. wallet.
Megan, as usual, was generous enough to gas my car (without even knowing I was upset because I’d left my expensive ergonomic mouse in the Men’s Room). That’s having it all, gents.
To exercise my frustration, I did a little public journaling. No, not this post. Nothing quite so coherent, HEH. I journaled on my office whiteboard:
“SHITTY DAY. PISSED OFF.”
When Megan entered my office, I pointed to the elegant poem. Not to be a jerk, just so she’d know where I’m coming from. It’s called communication, people.
How a wife interprets such things depends on the news she has brought. If her news is, “That’s it, I’m leaving you,” the whiteboard says, “I deserved whatever is about to happen.” If her news is, “I made your favorite,” the whiteboard says, “I need you right now, and you’re amazing.”
Megan’s news was that she had cut her hair. The purpose of her visit was to show me. What do you think she saw upon the whiteboard? I don’t know, but it made her timid. Not too timid to show me, though.
Because Megan cutting her hair was the best thing that happened to me yesterday. Because it happened between when she gassed my car and started dinner. And she wasn’t afraid to tell me, despite my salty language and foul mood, because we really get each other.
Megan makes even my bad days legendary.
That’s. Having. It. ALL. ‘GENTS.
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