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LOOKING GOOD FOR
ALL THE WRONG PEOPLE
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With all the troubles going on in our country these days, it
seemed time for a total fluff column. So here it is.
The Battle of the Century just ended. I got a haircut.
It all began when my wife came home a couple of months ago and casually took
off her shoes.
"NOOOOOO!" I screamed. "YOU PAINTED YOUR
TOES!"
Sure enough, right before my disbelieving eyes, every one of
her ten toenails was painted fire engine red. Absolutely disgusting.
I'm well aware many men, maybe even a majority, like nail
polish on women. I'm just not one of them.
"What were you thinking?" I asked, trying not to
look. "You know how much I hate red nail polish."
She wiggled her toes as close to my face as she could, which
fortunately wasn't that close. "I decided I wanted a change," she
replied. "You'll just have to get used to it."
I'm 64 years old. I've hated red nail polish, or any nail
polish for that matter, all my life. It was very unlikely I was going to
adapt.
I took a deep breath and ventured another look at her toes. I
was a big boy. Maybe she was right. Maybe I could get used to it.
"YUCK! DISGUSTING! I CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT THEM!"
"You've got problems," she said, turning away.
"I like the change. The red is staying."
"Fine," I replied. "If you don't care about
looking good for me, I'm not going to look good for you. I'll start with my
hair."
She hates it when my hair gets too long. She says it makes me
look old. So I always cut it when she tells me to. Not anymore. The battle
had begun.
For days, I tugged at my hair, hoping it would grow faster.
Within a couple of weeks, it was creeping over my ears and the fuzz around
the back of my neck below the hairline was finally noticeable. She was
starting to become disgusted, just as I had hoped.
"You really need a haircut," she announced one
evening as I came home looking like a mad scientist.
"Not a chance," I replied. "If you don't care
about my tastes, then I don't care about your tastes. I happen to like my
hair long. I only cut it because of you. Not anymore."
She stared me up and down. "So what you're saying is you
won't cut your hair until I take off the red toenail polish." She
looked down fondly at her phony, decorated toes. "Game on."
The next morning I walked into the kitchen and turned around
casually so she could see the back of my head.
"Nice ponytail," she said, noticing the little rubber
band that allowed one inch of hair to stick straight out from my otherwise
straight locks. "You look like an idiot."
"I really don't care what you think," I replied
nonchalantly. "A lot of cool rock stars have ponytails. And some women
like them, just like some men like red nail polish."
"That's it," she cried. "If you don't get a
haircut, I'm going to paint my fingernails red, too. What do you think about
that?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" was my first reaction. But before I
verbalized it, I remembered we were at war.
"If you do that," I answered, calming down,
"I'll start wearing a sweatsuit with matching top and bottom, every
day, all day. They're sooooo comfortable. And I don't care that you hate
that look!"
"Okay," she responded. "You like the natural
look so much, I'm going to stop shaving my legs and armpits."
She was bluffing, I think. But I have to admit I was getting a
little nervous. This could get ugly, in more ways than one. But war was war.
"Fine, I'll just grow a mustache."
"You've never been able to grow a mustache," she
replied, thinking she had me.
"Exactly!" I crowed. "I'll look ridiculous and
you'll hate it. That's why I'll do it!
The threats, all hollow, were now on the table, and the battle
continued. Weeks went by, with many a "EWWWWWW" and many a
"you look like an old man." Finally, in the end, I will humbly
just say that I won.
"Check out my toes," she said the other day. "I
took off the red. Back to boring old natural. Now get a haircut."
I'm not sure it will be a lasting peace, but I'll take what I
can get. Besides, the little ponytail did look ridiculous.
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