There is not enough ice cream in the world to motivate me today. Perhaps this is because ice cream now gives me a bad case of projectile diarrhea. Then again, is there ever a good case of projectile diarrhea? Pounds lost be damned.
It has been 10 days since my last jelly bean. Coincidentially, it has been 10 days since I've been at work.
Vacation is a funny thing. And by funny, I mean boring. I remember now why I don't take vacations. I don't know what to do with myself when I'm off-the-clock and not shacked up in a tropical hut with Paul sipping penis coladas.
There are things I want to do: write a book. But I have writer ADHD, hense the blog. I'm all about the short snappers. But lately I can't even muster the creativity for a post, let alone a whole chapter. So, I decided to morph my book into a clever collection of short stories. Snapity snap. So far, I have a clever collection of possible short story titles. Perhaps I can just do a book of short story titles?
This drives me crazy to no end, ie. the bottom of a wine glass. I totally need to get out of this rut. I keep waiting for some thing, some one to bitch-slap me back to my self-inflicted goals. I know I should be the one to deliver that kind of a blow. But I'm really getting into Ellen and Oprah and other possible procrastinatingly-friendly daytime TV research.
Paul agreed to let me cut his hair. On purpose. [Insert evil laugh here].
Paul's hair could be cut every week it grows so fast. Like a Chia Pet. In fact, it should be cut every week or it turns into a male version of the bouffant. Personally, I prefer my man with a closer cut. Not quite David Beckman short, but then again, not quite Edward Norton long. More of a Bradley Cooper length.
Paul is used to going to a "fancy" barber where the girls have things pierced that shouldn't be, tatts, tight clothes and big boobs. My barbering wardrobe of choice...yoga pants and a tank top.
I routed out my trusty hair clippers which hadn't been used since...well, they had actually never been used [shhhhhh]. Luckily (for me) it came with some handy "how to" instructions. [Note to self: try not to let your test subject see you reading "how to" instructions. It really doesn't instill confidence.]
The last time I had cut a guy's hair, I used scissors. I also ended up cutting off a tiny piece of his ear. Drama ensued. And my son has never let me forget it. Personally, I think it gives him character. Who needs a fully intact ear? People need quirks.
After a quick pep talk ["I will not make Paul look like Da Vinci"] I took a deep breath, and plugged in the clipper. I turned it on. I turned it off. I turned it on again.
After the 5th "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked Paul if I could have a quick glass of wine before I began. I find I am a better bowler after a glass of wine, so I assumed the same applied to hair cutting. Afterall, they both involve hands and shiny objects. (For the record, Paul wanted a sober stylist).
Now I was getting a bit nervous. After all, what if I ruined his follicle hotness?
Sometimes when I get a bit nervous, I get the giggles (this was one of those times). I flicked the switch and started buzzin' away. I tried to go slow and steady, but every so often the clipper would surge and a loud "ZZZZzzzz" erupted. Naturally, this was followed by a look of horror from Paul, wondering if I'd just given him an unintentional bald spot (I didn't). But the look on his face made me laugh even harder, which only made Paul more paranoid. He kept asking whether he could cut my hair in return (for the record, cutting girl's hair is SO different).
To make a long story short (no pun intended), I did the best job I could. Unfortunately, the best job I could made Paul's head look pumpkin-esque. And there's this one spot, not matter how many times I cut it, still stuck out. I begged Paul to try some pomade. It helped. [Slightly.]
Perhaps not everything that comes with "how to" instructions should be attempted. I mean, how could guys hair be so complicated? I wonder if this is how the Trump's barber feels.
