There’s that old saying that a couple starts to look like each other after years of marriage. I think I’ve found out why.
It’s Jenni’s fault.
Well, okay, not fault, really. I do possess some (limited) ability to say no to her wishes. And I do have the ability to exercise my own free will (as long as it doesn’t impede her desires).
I grew my beard on our honeymoon. Really. Haven’t shaved since the morning after we got married. That was fifteen years ago. The reason? Jenni wanted me to grow one, just to see how it looked. Well it worked, so there you are. Oh, and I’ve been told I can never shave it off. She must not like my chin or something.
Glasses, clothing styles, ear piercing–yup, done at the direction of, or at least with the approval of Jenni. Most of my married hair styles have been her wish–yes, even the mullet, sported for those couple of years out in North Dakota. We’ll ignore some of that time while I feverishly burn all photos of me.
But moving on….
I’ve been talking about a new ‘do’ for a while now. But it needs to fit into my rather tight constraints: It must, under no circumstances, require more care and effort than about 1 minute and 18 seconds in the morning. It must not, regardless of how hip it looks, clash with my general persona as an introverted computer geek, or get in the way of my ever-so-stylish office telephone headset. It must not involve colors not otherwise found either in nature or on my person. And finally, it must pass muster with Jenni.
Yup. Jenni picked this one:
That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is David Tennant, the most recent Doctor on the TV show Doctor Who. And Jenni adores him. Well, by most recent doctor, I mean that he just left the show as the Doctor regenerated into a new guy who we haven’t seen much of yet, but that will come, I’m sure.
Ah, but I’ve gotten sidetracked.
What does it say about our lives now when Jenni whips out her laptop to show my stylist a picture of the hairdo she proposes transposing onto my head? It used to be that you flipped through page after page of magazines or sample books, or whatever the hell they were called, until you found something you liked, only to find that the stylist decided your head just wasn’t right for the look. That calls to mind the time where I worked very hard to convince mom to let me get my hair feathered at our haircut, and she finally said yes…Only to have it completely fall down and back to it’s normal head-hugging shape before we made it to the parking lot of the mall.
See, I’m losing it again.
So yes. From mandible to cranium, my head is almost entirely a Jennifer Lathrop © 2010 production. Direct your comments and complaints her way.
No…Don’t. I don’t mind. Really. My hair is just sort of there. It completely lacks the ability to do anything on its own, and having grown up with the ever-stylish bowl cut, I wish to spend the last 80% of my life doing something different with it, even if that means employing product and environmentally negative chemicals.
And the beard? It stays…For now. My face has never really liked shaving, so this is a fine alternative–I just have to trim it and shave it to shape.
So lest ye think I’m completely whipped, let it be known here and now that I’m very much my own man. I can do what I want when I want and…
Wait. I need to go. Jenni says it’s bed time. Night all.
See you tomorrow.