My wife has discovered her hair. For fourteen years, by Amanda’s own admission, she’s maintained the same hair style — long, straight, with a subtle natural wave, down to the middle of her back. She frequently receives compliments on how pretty it is. Amanda goes to get a haircut, usually at Supercuts, every four to six months. Then, two weeks ago, we had the Conversation:
“Well, sweetie, I do like your hair very much, but it is a tad long.”
“Yes, perhaps I do need a trim. I’ll have an inch or two taken off.”
“Actually, sweetie, it’s just that your hair has gotten to a length that it’s not very flattering to you –”
“I’m not willing to spend thirty minutes in the morning making myself look the part of the well-maintained chick. It’s just not worth it. I want to shower in the morning and go to work. Can you not accept that?”
“You’re misunderstanding me. All I’m saying is that your hair is a tad long –”
Amanda and I really don’t disagree very often, but this somehow escalated into an Issue. She refused to even consider a hairstyle which made her invest more than a few minutes in the morning to maintain, and she thought that I was demanding such a hairstyle.
Then I sent her to Dee Morrissey at Studio Nove. Dee is the hairdresser in residence at the Hillbarn. She tweaked my boring shit-brown locks into the racy curls of the Undead Hot Lover from Hell when I played Dracula there. And she tweaked out Tiffany Cherevko’s straight blonde tresses into wild, elegant twists of gold. Dee’s definitely your hair connection.
Amanda came back, looking a bit chastised, with a smooth and fashionable straight cut, correctly layered. Dee had decided to curl her hair a bit at the front with a curling iron. Amanda cautioned me: “It’ll never look like this again. I’ll never invest that much time to make it look like this again.”
Then something happened. My wife, somehow, jumped on the Hair Bandwagon. That weekend, she went right out and bought hot curlers, conditioner, de-frizzer, de-bouncer, some bouncer in case the de-bouncer de-bounces too much, and a funky super professional hairspray.
Before we partied on Saturday night, she spent half an hour in the bathroom straightening her hair — she came out looking slick and lovely.
And last night, she spent an hour of quality time with her hair in curlers. When she pulled them out, in her white loose tank top and bare midriff, I flashed back to being seven years old and watching Valerie Bertinelli on “One Day At A Time.”
She’s my wife, you know. I don’t really give a shit whether her hair is long or short or straight or curlicued whatever the hell she does with it. I love her. She is the one.
But, you see, there’s this little thing. When I was seven years old, I fell in love with Valerie Bertinelli.
