Once upon a time, I casually mentioned to my husband that it’d be cool if he grew his hair out. After all, no one here in the States would care. Husband interpreted this comment as a direct order, and spent the subsequent three years letting his locks grow unfettered. Now he has a foot and a half long mane and he wants me to do something about it.
Or rather, he wants me to tell him what to do with it.
This leads to conversations like this:
Husband: “I might get my hair cut after work today.”
Me: “Go ahead.”
Husband: “Where can I get it cut?”
Me: “Depends. What do you want to do with it?”
Him: “What do you want me to do with it?”
Me: “Whatever you want.”
Having spent the last three years being blamed for one hairstyle, I’m not about to make the same mistake. His hair is his hair, and he may do what he likes with it.
This is driving him insane, because in his mind, th ereason I’m not telling him what to do with his hair (aka giving him suggestions to willfully misinterpret) couldn’t be because I don’t enjoy listening to him grouse about “well, it’s your fault I grew it out in the first place.” Obviously the only reason I’m not biding Husband follow my rule on his hair is because I’m trying to drive him crazy.
Husband: “I don’t know what I want to do with my hair.”
Me: “Do you want to cut it? Keep it where it is?”
Husband: “What do you think I should do?”
Me: “Whatever your heart desires.”
Husband: “No, no, what do you really want me to do? I know you really want me to do something.”
This suspicion isn’t totally outrageous. I’m the sort of person who’s usually happy to tell him exactly how to present himself. Shortly after we began dating, he asked me to advise him on all future wardrobe purchases. I was the one who initially urged him to grow a beard. The only reason Husband doesn’t wash his locks with Axe bodywash is because I intervened. His underwear selection is completely my doing, and he’s been quite happy with it.
Except for the bits where he hasn’t, like the time I bought him boxer-briefs instead of boxers and he wore them, but complained to me every time that they made him itch. Or the time that I got him a nice button-down, which he now only wears when I ask him to. Or all the other bits and pieces of wardrobe and style that just didn’t work out, but he can avoid because they’re not attached to his body. Unlike his hair.
If he cuts it all off and hates how it looks, you know who’s going to be blamed? Me. With great power comes great responsibility, and frankly, I just don’t want it.
Husband: “C’mon, tell me what you want me to do with my hair.”
Me: “Hell no.”
Husband: “You’re doing this to upset me! Just tell me!”
This isn’t the first time that Husband has become convinced that I’m out to get him over something completely innocuous. A year ago, I moved one of the lamps in the living room. Not a lot. I moved it from next to the bookshelf to next to a chair, a distance of perhaps eight feet.
I could have been gone for a month from the apartment and if Husband had shifted that thing three inches in my absence, the second sentence out of my mouth would have been, “Oh, you moved the lamp.”
After two hours of being home from work, he noted that the wall socket the lamp had once used was empty, and so went to plug something into it. But when he reached the wall, he paused and frowned. “Is something different here?”
Sensing he was becoming more observant, I replied that it was, and he continued frowning until the light dawned some minutes later. “Aha! The Roomba dock is crooked.”
Meanwhile, I was sitting in my reading chair, under the bright lamp that I moved over there, and he was carrying on a conversation while looking directly at me. The lamp was in his line of vision.
“No, something’s definitely different,” I said in an attempt to prompt him to figure it out.
Husband set his brow and scoffed, “No, it isn’t, you’re making fun of me.”
To this day, he doesn’t believe I moved the lamp. In his mind, it was always where it is now and accuses me of making fun of him when I assure him it moved.
Only in this situation, rather than acknowledging that if he did something with his hair on my orders and he didn’t like it, he’d resent it for all times and I’d never hear the end of it, Husband has come up with an elaborate fantasy where I have a distinct preference for what I want him to do with it, but am cruelly refusing to share it so as to deliberately torment him.
I don’t care what he does with his hair. It’s his hair. It looked nice short and it looks nice long. Whatever he does or does not do with it in the future will be fine.
But in the meantime, if he’s going to be paranoid, I’m going to be amused by it.
Me: “You know I’ll love you whatever you do with your hair, right?”
Him: “Stop it!”
I’m S. Hunter Nisbet, writer of post-apocalyptic dystopian novels of the dark and gritty type. This is to balance the fact that my life is a strange sort of comedy. I also enjoy watching British snark shoes and being a Twitter person.
These are affiliate links. They support me and the running of this website. If you like this website, please buy my books. They support my “having electricity” hobby.