Monday, May 15, 2006
What Would Dr. Phil Say?
Last night I had an all too familiar kind of conversation with TSO. It went, quite literally, as follows:
Me: What a great day.
TSO: I mean this really sincerely... I miss your hair, I really do
Translation: your bald head is A) embarrassing me, B) bothering me, and C) causing my family to have to wear dark sunglasses
Since we've been married, my hair has followed that touchy migratory pattern that other males try to cover up with bizarre products you see demonstrated on TV, but which I simply have committed to accepting as a natural progression. In fact, as it continues to form the two now infamous ozone holes on the top front and top back, I have become more and more interested in simply shaving it all off. After all, if life is going to throw me a curve ball, then I'm going to take control of it and call it my own. Nobody beats me up -- except me! Besides, bald-headed guys get to have tattoos, drive Harleys, and call their wives "mama" and that is sooooo how I want to go.
It all started one day, years ago, when we were talking about how, in pictures taken with bright flashes or in bright overhead lighting, my bald spots would create a double-glazed shine capable of blinding beings on Jupiter without any special lenses.
Me: Yeah, I hate when that happens.
TSO: Would you consider getting plugs?
Me: Plugs? Seriously?
TSO: Well, you know, so it wasn't so bald?
Me: Does it bother you?
TSO: I'll still love you no matter what you do.
Translation: Do it now. I love you, but I don't want to be seen with you.
Having hair is fine. Not having hair is fine. Having combovers, spraying black paint, surgically implanting alien-infested Scientology hairs -- these are things I have no interest in any more than TSO would have an interest in, say, having her lips poofed out to Angelina-Jolie-sized life rafts.
So over the past few months, I've been having my hair cut shorter and shorter. Finally, in the past month, I've given up going anywhere to have my hair cut and I've simply taken the trimmer on Setting #1 to the entire curvature of my head. Saves the family $25/mo and -- to me -- looks so much better.
We probably would have had a good conversation, but since TSO was already in bed when the comment was made, and since when she is in bed she gets severe bouts of narcolepsy, it went something like this:
Me: What do you mean by that?
TSO: ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Now, TSO is a frequent fan of Dr. Phil -- a bald guy. And she loves Prison Break -- those guys are hot, she says. And she loved Chris Daughtry on American Idol -- he's hot, she says.
So maybe there's hope -- All I need to do is get a job on TV in order to get her acceptance!
---- Dantelope @ avert-your-eyes-im-horrible
Me: What a great day.
TSO: I mean this really sincerely... I miss your hair, I really do
Translation: your bald head is A) embarrassing me, B) bothering me, and C) causing my family to have to wear dark sunglasses
Since we've been married, my hair has followed that touchy migratory pattern that other males try to cover up with bizarre products you see demonstrated on TV, but which I simply have committed to accepting as a natural progression. In fact, as it continues to form the two now infamous ozone holes on the top front and top back, I have become more and more interested in simply shaving it all off. After all, if life is going to throw me a curve ball, then I'm going to take control of it and call it my own. Nobody beats me up -- except me! Besides, bald-headed guys get to have tattoos, drive Harleys, and call their wives "mama" and that is sooooo how I want to go.
It all started one day, years ago, when we were talking about how, in pictures taken with bright flashes or in bright overhead lighting, my bald spots would create a double-glazed shine capable of blinding beings on Jupiter without any special lenses.
Me: Yeah, I hate when that happens.
TSO: Would you consider getting plugs?
Me: Plugs? Seriously?
TSO: Well, you know, so it wasn't so bald?
Me: Does it bother you?
TSO: I'll still love you no matter what you do.
Translation: Do it now. I love you, but I don't want to be seen with you.
Having hair is fine. Not having hair is fine. Having combovers, spraying black paint, surgically implanting alien-infested Scientology hairs -- these are things I have no interest in any more than TSO would have an interest in, say, having her lips poofed out to Angelina-Jolie-sized life rafts.
So over the past few months, I've been having my hair cut shorter and shorter. Finally, in the past month, I've given up going anywhere to have my hair cut and I've simply taken the trimmer on Setting #1 to the entire curvature of my head. Saves the family $25/mo and -- to me -- looks so much better.
We probably would have had a good conversation, but since TSO was already in bed when the comment was made, and since when she is in bed she gets severe bouts of narcolepsy, it went something like this:
Me: What do you mean by that?
TSO: ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Now, TSO is a frequent fan of Dr. Phil -- a bald guy. And she loves Prison Break -- those guys are hot, she says. And she loved Chris Daughtry on American Idol -- he's hot, she says.
So maybe there's hope -- All I need to do is get a job on TV in order to get her acceptance!
---- Dantelope @ avert-your-eyes-im-horrible
