It must be that special time of year when Guido goes fucking Pluto. You know, daytime.
“You need a haircut,” she tells me, which is right. I do. But she mentions this at 3:30 AM after I ease my way back to bed after a visit to the porcelain convenience. Maybe she was asleep, but that just invites another set of uncomfortable questions.
I don’t ask. Here’s what I’ve learned after years of cohabitation with an Italian redhead: no matter what I may think is right/clever/sensible/essential, under no circumstances is it worth bringing up at 3:30 AM. Keep your mouth shut, roll over, and start snoring.
The next day I dutifully set out for a haircut. Same place, a little shop on Griffin Road, but a different barber. Like the previous two, this one is cue-ball bald. This strikes me as just wrong, in exactly the same way as would a dermatologist with severe acne, or an obese therapist specializing in treating eating disorders. But even more so: these barbers choose baldness. They shave their own heads Is that because they don’t trust any other barbers to cut their hair and they can’t cut their own? What’s the deal here?
I’d ask, but their English is even worse than my Spanish, and they have very sharp blades at their disposal.
As for the larded therapists — you knew I couldn’t let THAT go — the industry justifies this without so much as a hiccup. It seems the preferred approach these days isn’t to get control of your fucking appetite, but rather to “accept your body” and “lose irrational expectations created by the fashion industry.” No lie. So when obese patients waddle in and see a fat therapist, they envy her self-confidence and comfort within her own blubber. Meanwhile, Americans are dangerously overweight, especially young children. Great work, dickheads.
Guido doesn’t like my haircut. When I tell her it was her idea godammit, she gives me the narrow-eyed constipated look she learned at the Wife Academy, sighs heavily, shakes her head sadly, and walks away. Did she forget? Note to self: make pun about opera called The Barber of Senile.
Hmph. Fifteen bucks — that’s 50 cents a hair — for an exposed scalp and a look of contempt. I’d shave my own head but I can’ reach it — I’m too tall. And damned if I trust Guido with a blade anywhere near my throat. She’s too close to my throat now.
Besides, unlike foreskin, hair grows back. Ripeness is all.