While I was dying of the stomach flu from hell last week, my daughter took it upon herself to throw rabbit food all over the family room. When I say, “all over” I mean motherfucking EVERYWHERE.
A week later, I’m still cleaning it out of the most random of places. Amelia has been grounded until age sixteen.
I was in the middle of frantically vacuuming it out from under my end table, mentally adding a couple more years to her grounding, possibly a moat and a fire-breathing dragon, when Daver asked me to cut his hair.
“I’m going short for summer,” he informed me.
“Sure,” I said, wiping sweat from my face. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
He grabbed his clippers and began to cut his hair. Eventually, he called me. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
With that he handed me the clippers.
He didn’t SAY anything about the clippers, so I assumed that they were on the proper setting. Or whatever. I’m no clipper expert.
So I just grabbed ’em and started clipping.
If this were a sitcom, this is where you guys would start to groan.
I neatly shaved a two-inch stripe on the left side of Daver’s head before I realized he’d set the clippers to their lowest setting so I could shave up the back. Not shave his whole head with them.
“Oh FUCK,” I said.
“What?” He replied, somehow oblivious that I’d just made him look like a second-rate Vanilla Ice.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” This was very bad. Very bad indeed. “I just shaved a vertical stripe on your head!”
“WHAT?” With that he ran to the bathroom to look.
“BECKY!” he hollered. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”
“I, um, I can FIX it,” I promised.
He sat back down and handed me the clippers again, proving that he’s a masochist.
“Maybe I should Bic it,” he said.
“Dave, your head is shaped like an alien. You can’t Bic that shit. You’ll scare small children.” I said as I tried to blend the hair.
I stood back to admire my handiwork.
“Um, maybe you can use some makeup or something.” I suggested.
“Makeup? What the fuck can I do with MAKEUP?”
“Well, um, you could apply brownish eyeshadow to that area some so your pasty whiteness doesn’t shine through. Like that spray paint shit they sold to bald guys.” I said it, then remembered it was an SNL skit.
“I’ll just wear a hat.”
(hours pass)(I eat a cheeseburger)
“The hat doesn’t cover that bit of my head, Becky. YOU OWE ME,” Daver said.
“Well, you could wear a ski cap. I have several…oh, wait, they have rhinestones on them. Plus, um, it’s summer.”
“Yeah,” he said, annoyed.
“From THIS angle, it looks fine,” I suggested, starting to laugh.
“You’re sitting on the OTHER SIDE OF ME.”
(I begin to laugh uproariously)
“I can try and make it look intentional. Shave a swish on either side of your head.”
“I CANNOT GO OUT IN PUBLIC LIKE THIS.”
“Bwahahahahahaha! (wipes eyes) People will just think you have some horrible condition that makes you bald on one side. You can tell them you have leprosy. Maybe people will give you free things!”
I’m laughing so hard that I’m crying.
“Oh great,” he said, playing the straight man. “People will think that I’m rotting. That’s just GREAT, Becky.”
“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Especially if you flail around a little bit. You should practice flailing around. OHMYGOD WE NEED TO GO OUT IN PUBLIC NOW.”
“No.” Dave replied.
“Well,” I snorted. “It’ll grow back. Remember that time I had a mullet?”