The Bigger the Hair, the Closer to God

*I bought this sweater at Foxmoor Casuals in the Capitola Mall with babysitting money.

In 1978, the summer before ninth grade, I made a trip to my mom's hometown in the panhandle of Texas. I hung out with some local teenage girls who were beauty queens. Miss Borger, and Miss West Texas Panhandle were beautiful girls with big, beautiful, Texas beauty pageant hairstyles. I wanted to look just like them. While I was there, I got a layered haircut, a plastic box of hot rollers, and a fresh can of Aqua Net.  The results were not tiara-worthy.

When I got back to California, I spent the mornings before school, fighting my hair with a giant round brush while trying not to burn the tops of my ears with the spiky rollers. Every day by third period, regardless of the thick shellac covering my head, the big, bouncy curls wilted in the fog of my seaside hometown. I lived in the wrong territory for hair that was, as my mom would say, "bigger than Dallas."

Like That Guy

"See that guy up there, Mom? That's the haircut I want."

"The guy with the soccer mullet?"

"It's called a 'faux-hawk' and they're epically cool. A bunch of guys I know have them."

"I thought those boys' heads were shaved because they had lice."

"Yeah, but it still looks really cool."

The Deal

In exchange for 20 minutes of home haircut cooperation and minimal whining, Bob negotiated:

1 Episode of Max and Ruby

1 Apple/Grape Juice Box

10 Minutes of the Wow Wow Wubbzy Game On My Phone

2 Chocolate Coins Leftover From the Piñata at J.P.'s Birthday Party

1 Lego Star Wars Snow Trooper Battle Pack

(Beauty does not come cheap.)

Really Super Cuts

Jeff started a new job on Monday. On Sunday morning he decided to trim his hair to make sure he looked tidy for the big day. Jeff usually cuts his hair himself with the aid of an adjustable hair trimmer, resulting in a style we refer to as “The Matt Lauer.”

I was still in bed Sunday morning when I heard Jeff calling me from the bathroom, “Honey? Honey? Bob get Mama, Daddy’s freaking out a little. I’m freaking out. Honey?”

I came into the bathroom and discovered this:

Jeff had attempted to do his hair and had forgotten to put on the trimmer attachment.

“Honey? Oh my God. It’s bad, right? Oh my God. I didn’t have coffee yet and I just wasn't thinking and Jesus you have to fix this. I’m freaking out. I think you can fix it, right? Maybe do a fade? It's not that bad, right?”

In the immediate crisis I was of no help because I was much too busy laughing until I couldn’t breathe. Also, I can trim neck hair but the “tapered fade” is not in my bag of tricks.

“I can’t fix that. You need a real barber.”

“It’s Sunday. Isn’t everything closed?”

I promised I would help, but first I tried to sell him on some new hairstyle ideas.

"The Kanye - I'm A Let You Finish":


Or perhaps "The Ron Artest" with the name of the new company shaved into his hair to show team spirit:


Once I had wiped the laughter-convulsion-tears from my eyes, I set about trying to fix things. While I was attempting a miracle, our dog wedged herself into our small bathroom and squeaked incessantly on a reindeer dog toy. Bob pulled up his new 18 wheeler and his mini-piano and played along. Jeff moaned and cursed a little under his breath. All of this combined to create optimal conditions for concentrating on the job at hand.


As I worked, my biggest fear is that I would leave my sweet, handsome, husband with "The Forrest Gump":


The finished hairstyle was passable and looked like this:


The best part about the new do is that it will have completely filled in by the end of the week. (And I got breakfast in bed and a blog post out of it.)

High five.

Hairs

We Rosenbergs (Man/Woman/Child/Canine/Feline) are a hairy group. I could vacuum our home daily and still tread on a thin carpet of fur, even in the tub. I do not vacuum daily but what I’m saying is, I could and it wouldn’t help much.

Consider this, future houseguests: There is always, and I mean always, the classic, suspect hair clinging to our soap. You have no way of knowing which man or beast it originated from or which region of their body. That’s the sexy guessing-game we play at our house. Want in? Ditto for our butter dish. There. I said it.

I have hair of the too long and apparently quite powerful variety. Its strength has been tested. The dog has on occasion, (perhaps mistakenly) ingested my hair. Evidence: We have spied her hopping nervously through the yard being trailed by what appears to be a floating poop. Upon closer inspection (always a good time) we see that the poop clod is actually dangling daintily out of her pooper by one, long, ribbon of my glorious mane. Those strands are strong. That’s just good genetics everyone.

When I referred to the dozen or so large-ish dust/hair bunnies that were found hiding under the couch as a “kitten farm” small Bob promptly started naming the “kittens.” We frown on this behavior.

My gorgeous-genius husband is uber-hairy in the tradition of Alec Baldwin, Robin Williams, and the Geico Cavemen. Jeff will tell you that the disappearance of hair from the top of his head has been inversely proportional to the rapid spread of hair on his everywhere-else. At one point in his late-twenties he attempted the trendy “clean look” with a little overly zealous man-scaping down there. He describes the result as looking like he was wearing a bear suit with a hole in it.

Hairy.