How's your hair?
My lovely lady-mullet has been growing like a weed. Weeds. Weeds without benefit of Roundup. The front has a mind of its own, and that mind is not on business. The back, though, is all about the party. It dips down in my collar, and out of my collar, and pretty much moves like one of those air-blower stick people on a used-car lot.
I haven't had a haircut since mid-February. Or maybe even February. I remember, because it was just before we made a late-birthday visit to Oklahoma to see The Pony. Since then, I've trimmed the bangs three or four times. It's not that I'm afraid to trim other visible parts. I just can't do it. I cannot coordinate the scissors with my view in the mirror. I'm forever snipping empty air in front of or behind the swatch of hair between my fingers.
Hick has been to his barber during this month, but had to make an appointment. No sitting around, shooting the bull for three hours, with other men escaping from under the collective thumbs of their collective wives. And Hick has hardly any hair to cut! No beard-trimming, though.
I guess I need to make a stop at Terrible Cuts. Last I heard, one of their chains in Springfield exposed about eleventy-hundred customers to the VIRUS. Yet none of them caught it. So I guess I'm just as safe as if I'd taken a Memorial Day dip in that cheek-to-cheek bar pool party at Lake of the Ozarks. Where only one person came down with the VIRUS in the month after that viral (no pun intended!) photo.
Don't even suggest letting Hick behind me with a pair of scissors! I'd never see my scissors again! They disappear like leftover pizza around here.