Let me set the scene. All during the school year Mary is very fastidious about her professional appearance. She has her hair done professionally once a week, sometimes twice. It makes her feel good about herself. But once the school year ends and summer has arrived, she loosens up a bit on the hair grooming and pushes the professional aside and “does” her own hair.
As usual, she steadfastly seeks my opinion about her effectiveness as a hairstylist. In my defense, I have repeatedly asked her not to seek an opinion from me since I don’t want to “step in it” if you know what I mean. But no, she has this insatiable desire to bait me, knowing that I can’t control my baser instincts.
“How does my hair look,” she asks in all innocence. “I did it myself instead of having Tina do it.”
“Looks great.” I reply without really looking. My answer would be the same even if I was blind.
“Do you think it looks ok brushed back like this?” She is forcing me to look.
“Sure. It looks fine to me.”
A reasonably intelligent man who has been married to the same woman for 38 years and knows how she thinks and reacts to any circumstance or utterance by that man would have stopped right there. But anyone who knows me knows that “reasonable intelligence,” when applied to my role in this marriage, is pushing the envelope. So I plunged ahead without engaging my brain before the words escaped.
“It nearly covers that bald spot when you do that.” Oops. I did it again.
No, she does not have a bald spot. Her hair looks very nice even when she takes care of it herself. I just can’t seem to resist adding the extra little quip instead of shutting down when all is still well in the household. I may never learn. Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I have a short circuit in my brain that only allows the stupid stuff out. Maybe I should get a tongue-ectomy.
She stormed from the room uttering threats about kicking my cane aside and nudging me headfirst down the stairs. She was kidding. I think.