The End Of Joe Slick-No Way
So the other night I’m enjoying a peaceful dinner when suddenly, ruthlessly and completely unprovoked I’m attacked from across the table.
It’s the “Wifey Poo” come to deal me a mortal blow against the locks of what’s left of my defenseless and receding hairline.
“When are you going to change that hair of yours? You’ve had the same hairdo for 20 years, doused with a handful of the stiffest gel and slicked straight back with a course comb. Ya look like a con-man ready to pull a sting operation.”
“I like my hair the way it is, leave it alone!” I yammer back, my fork suspending a large dollop of marsh potatoes three inches from my gaping mouth.
Not deterred in the slightest the “Wifey Poo” slams me again, “That stiff gel hardens your hair into one black helmet and there’s a dent going right down the middle. Your head looks like a scene out of the movie A River Runs Through It.”
My “Irish” up I ditched my Christian principles, slammed my fork to the plate below and stood up to let fly my famous war cry!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m not changing my hair and you can’t make me!!! Besides sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me!! Naaaa Na Na Na Na
Confident I had clearly expressed my role as the eldest male of the household I sat down and finished my dinner.
The sun rose in the eastern sky the next morning and off I went to get my hair styled.
For those who don’t know me lets just say, I’m no metro-sexual. Hell, I wouldn’t use hand lotion until I was about 40, and then only when no one was looking. When I talk about getting my hair “styled” I don’t mean going off to a fancy Salon I mean going to a $10.00 or less special that week “hair-stylist”.
Usually when the “hair-stylist” asks me how I want my hair to look I look her squarely in eye and say “shorter”.
Today was different. I plop my Irish butt down into the chair that goes round and round and Crystal comes over and asks me, “What are we doing today?”
“What’s that a trick question?” I’m thinking. Has she talked with my wife already?
Shoving aside any conspiracy theories I boldly declare, “aaaahhhh, I’m thinking of trying something different today. My wife of 29 years doesn’t like my hair anymore and wants me to change it.”
“Ooooohhhhhh how sweet”, Crystal sighs and runs for the hair styling book to show me some “hip & with-it” styles.
“No no no no nothing fancy”, I yelp stopping her dead in her tracks, not wanting to draw any attention over to our station.
“Actually the wife thinks my hair would look better not slicked back but parted on the side.”
Crystal gives me this “Oops wrong planet look”, widens her eyes patronizingly and says, “well that might be nice, let’s comb it over and see how it looks”.
Not being a Medical Device Sales Rep anymore I’ve let my hair grow. When Crystal took her number 4 comb and began to tug on my head shifting the hair from the right side over to the left she created a part on the side of my head Moses could have led the Israelites through.
As I sat in the chair looking at my face in the mirror on the wall while Crystal worked I felt like I was in a Time Machine.
“When was the last time you had your hair parted on the side?”, Crystal bravely asked trying to look professional.
“When I was 5″, I answered immediately.
Crystal laughed and I told her “there “ain’t” no way” that head is leaving this Salon. Just cut it “shorter” and let’s forget about what the wife wants.”
As Crystal finished up my haircut I let her know she was my witness and might be required to testify before my wife that I looked like a 50 year old with a 5 year old hairdo with my hair parted on the side.
“Maybe I should just have you sign your name on your formal letterhead stating you “Crystal” would not take part in any hairstyle for “Mr. Mark McClean” that turned him “Opie Taylor.”
Hair “shorter” and “slicked-back” I walked with confidence to my car and began to plan my defense for that evening’s dinner.
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