I used to date a guy who in a previous life was an unknown Greek philosopher. Although that may sound fascinating, and it was for 30 seconds, I’m here to testify that one rhetorical genius in a relationship is too many. He was very good at thinking, but had a very difficult time doing, especially when that doing involved maintaining gainful employment.
My husband, however, had to have been a saint in a previous life, one with the most gentle of dispositions, a heavenly peacemaker with a refined ability to endure tribulation. That’s the only way to explain why and how he puts up with my incessant screaming, tantrums, and inexplicable infatuation with Britney Spears.
My husband also smells really good, and he totally does the arm-behind-the-passenger-seat thing when he’s backing out of a parking space, and the hand-in-front-of-the-passenger thing when he comes to an abrupt stop. The rhetorical genius couldn’t even drive.
He’s also not afraid to participate in traditionally girly projects, like shopping for panties and bras at GAP Body by himself to surprise me for my birthday, and most recently, applying a permanent color fixative to my hair.
Now, here’s the thing. The thing is, we thought we were dying my hair brown. But we didn’t dye my hair brown, or at least we didn’t know we weren’t dying my hair brown. We thought we were dying it brown, the box said it would be brown, but it isn’t brown.
We dyed my hair red, and not a conventional red, or even a marginally acceptable traditional red. I think it’s a red that’s probably found in the septic tanks of hell, swirling around with evil poopy browns and hints of acidic piss. It’s a veritable dooce-aster.
And I’m trying to convince myself that this dye job is totally punk rock and that I can get away with it. If I were really punk rock it wouldn’t matter that my hair looks like — and I’m sorry to do this to you — someone’s used and discarded tampon. But my wonderful saintly husband assures me that it’s really not that bad, that it is in fact rather lovely and at least our kids don’t have to worry about inheriting this hair color.
And I really want to believe him. I want to feel it when I hear Pat Benatarï¿½s “Invincible (Theme From The Legend Of Billie Jean),” like yeah, that’s me, I’m just as cute and ferocious as Helen Slater! I want to believe that perhaps I was Billie Jean in a previous life.
But I can’t help but pine for a younger, more innocent time when my hair was virginal and flaxen and worthy of the gifts of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
And who needs Iraq when you have my hair, a radioactive accident, a walking Chernobyl, a nuclear heavyweight refusing to cooperate with UN inspectors.