So, it came down to me (using my beard trimmer) to give her a haircut. Gulp! At first I was tentative, afraid I might screw it up. But soon I was into it, just hacking away as gobs of hair gathered in the bathtub. By the time the second haircut rolled around, I was an ol' pro, going to town with maniacal glee.
Then...Black Thursday happened.
I'm in the dog house. Big time.
Things began well enough. I did the usual shaping and trimming, then took the guard off to get her neck. When my wife looked at the results in the mirror, she decided she wanted more taken off.
"Okay," I said with a zeal that shouldn't have been there.
I raised the razor and started in on the back. I gasped, recoiled in horror at what I'd done. I had forgotten to put the blade guard back on.
She said, "What'd you do? Did you give me a bald spot?"
"Um, it's not too bad. It--"
"Oh, my God, you better not have!" She bounded out of the bathtub and hurtled upstairs to retrieve her hand-held mirror.
Then, throughout the house and loud enough for the neighbors to hear, "OH! MY! GOD!"
She exploded back down the stairwell, each footstep pounding with my rising heartbeat. I knew I was in trouble.
It probably didn't help that I couldn't fight the grin that kept creeping onto my face. "Honey, it's not that bad. Um, maybe you could wear a hat or--"
"I have to go into work tomorrow, too!"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, honey, really, a million sorries, so many sorries that..."
I groveled and pleaded for a while. That was yesterday. I'm still paying for it today.
She said, "I'm going to find a new barber."
Sure is crowded in this doghouse.
Speaking of things going to the dogs, things get even worse when they go to the wolves. Werewolves, that is. Check out my darkly comical horror satire, Corporate Wolf, to see exactly what I mean.
Haw, haw, haw. Is that an actual photo of her?
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