Slick

I’m in charge of Charlie’s hair.  Unlike the thin, straight stuff stuck flat on my head, Charlie has a huge amount of thick, wavy hair.  His high school pictures are hilarious, if you like afros on white people.  It’s a good thing he’s learned to update.

His sister has the same hair.  She says it’s like wearing a fur hat or a dead animal on your head.  “You try having this on your head in this climate,” she says.  “It’s perfect for Alaska.”  She lives in Florida.

Charlie wears his potential afro short and close-cut.  I bought a set of clippers and took on the responsibility of cutting it myself when we couldn’t afford to pay someone else.  It’d start to get big every three weeks or so, so I’d sit him down for a few minutes and trim the wild tresses.  The amount of hair on the floor was more than I could grow for a year.  I’d sweep it up into a ball and it looked like a big vulture’s nest.  It often filled up the kitchen garbage can.

Cutting hair when you’re not professional gets inconvenient and just plain messy.  I started to wait longer and longer to do this job.  Getting his hair chunks all over me is never timely.  I could complain about the mess, but there are worse things on the floor, or sub-floor, which is what we mostly walk on.  Charlie even graciously sweeps it up.  I’ve become haircut passive-aggressive.  I say I want to cut it, but I do everything I can to put it off. 

We had wedding pictures taken a few weeks before we were married.  I took one look at the photos and tried not to laugh.  We sent them out even though he looked like he had a baseball glove on the top of his head.  I could lie to myself and him before I saw it in print.  Charlie said nothing and neither did I.  It was my fault he had such a tall head.  You’re too busy getting married to admit things.  That comes later.

I finally did cut his hair right before our actual wedding day.  He liked it cut especially close by his temples where it was just starting to turn gray.  This was a while ago when I brazenly used bare clippers.  He got me laughing so hard, I took out a big chunk of that salt-and-pepper.  I let him borrow my mascara to fill in the empty hole.  On our honeymoon trip, I remember him yelling loudly, “Where’s my mascara?” with the door open.  I’ve learned now to use the safety guide.

He was due for a haircut about a month ago.  During this time, I’ve trimmed every one of my kid’s hair, even the Vegan’s.  The Vegan only allows his precious blond locks to be cut about once a year, yet even he decided his hair was too long.  I could never find the time to cut Charlie’s hair, so I kept the clippers out to punish myself.  I put them back a few weeks ago.  There’s only so much punishment I can stand.  I told myself it was Charlie’s fault.

Today, Charlie woke up and apparently found a comb.  He shaped his thick hair into a big swell of a wave, shooting up from his forehead and temples straight out and curling back.  “It looks like a mullet without the long part,” I said, “or something caused by an electrical accident.”  I had to wait a few minutes before I said this because I was laughing so hard.

“I think I’m going to wear it this way for a while,” he said.

“No you aren’t.”

Every time I looked at him, I made sure I focused below his forehead.  When I looked up, I started laughing.  “Hey, Slick,” I’d say when I wanted to get his attention.  “Eighties Man, can I get you to stop for lunch?”  After leaning down and working on the shower all day, it stuck up into a couple of huge points.  “How soon will you be done, Flame?” I asked.  He laughed, too, like he enjoyed the attention.  If I were him I’d be happy I still had plenty of hair.

“Guess where I have to go?” he said after spending all day trying to put a straight door on a crooked shower.  “I need more of these little screws.  Wanna come?”

“Okay,” I said.  “We need towel racks and a bathroom mirror, if you think you’ll be done with the shower today.”  He put the upstairs shower off limits because the dripping from the bathroom upstairs has become relentless, even with his day-wasting epoxy job.  If it’s going to be a real bathroom downstairs, it needs all the amenities: toilet, shower, sink AND towel racks. 

I didn’t mind walking around with him looking like this at Home Depot.  There were so many people looking so much worse.  I, myself, was wearing old Tae Kwon Do pants full of paint along with an old sweatshirt, also full of paint that Charlie’s pregnant daughter left behind. 

The only normal-looking guy walked around with a real cute dog, but he seemed to act like the dog was the one shopping.  He wandered around and around, letting the dog lead him.  He had an extremely blank look on his face, like a dog getting a walk has.  After he wandered by about three or four times, I didn’t want to bump into him again.  Dogs do a lot of things you wouldn’t want to see a man do.

We had decided to see a movie tonight as a reward for getting through the end of another fixer work day.  To do this, we’d need to finish up when we got home.  “We can just go have sushi later on instead, if you want to keep working,” I said.

“I was looking forward to going to Kennedy School and relaxing.”

“We’d have to stop now, though,” I said.  “We’d have to go to the gym now to get cleaned up.”

“I don’t need a shower.”

“Oh yes you do.  Home Depot is one thing,” I said, “but going out to the movies is another.  I’m not going to be seen with you like that.”

“I can wet it down,” he said.

“Trust me, Slick,” I said.  I looked up at his hair and started laughing.  In the dusk truck light, he looked exactly like someone wearing a small dead raccoon.  I think I prefer him wearing my mascara.

A little help? [] 6:00:01 PM