HAIR


Most men seem to be obsessed with length. That speaks for itself, but for my purposes today, I will speak about length of hair. Their own, or the lack thereof. As for their tastes in women's tresses, longer seems to equate to better. My own dear Z resembles Andre Agassi so closely that he is frequently mistaken for him by taxi drivers and airport personnel. (Doesn't happen in town so much as celebs are rarely sighted in suburban grocery stores shopping for Gogurt and Tampax.) Yes, he's got the puppy dog brown eyes, the lush eyebrows, the olive skin, and the oh so sexy legs. He also has the dearth of hair, which is not widespread; just enough so that he has a pleasing to the touch quarter inch-short shaved do. Which matters not to me, not one little bitty short bit. But, after eight years of my protestations: You have the face! Your head is perfect in its proportion! You would look WEIRD with hair, I cannot imagine it, darling! I love running my hands over your pate, it gets me going! I am still met with: Yeah, RIGHT. Not to mention the inevitable: Imagine your hair going down the drain at eighteen years of age. THEN talk to me.

Well, I can sympathize even if empathy is out of my reach. After all, I have lost my board flat tum due to childbirth, my right to flirt outrageously, my crystal clear vision which now causes me to be deathly afraid of the eye test at the DMV, and my mind on several occasions.

Z recently had an epiphany about the mind games this obsession causes in men. He says, Hair=Lawn. You decide.

After the dinner hour this evening, I was looking out the window gazing upon row upon row of suburban yards in varied states of greeniosity (that's a Z word, don't blame me). As far as my little eye could see, each featured a sweaty man, every one in a state of LawnManism (my word, blame me). They were pushing mowers, utilizing weed eaters, fertilizers, and other strange forms of lawn equipment. Potting soil was hauled. Sprinklers were employed, moved, and watched over with surgeon like precision. Weeds were yanked and curse words were invented. Everywhere, the tension was as thick as pollen and inhaled by each and every man as the competition grew more fierce. Sideways, derisive glances were cast from neighbor to neighbor. Mutters were uttered under their breaths, to the tune of: Lucky MFer, your sod got laid in the spring last year. It's not my fault they had to wait to lay a sidewalk in June. You son of a bitch. Followed loudly by: Hey Bud! Lookin' GOOD over there! After which comes the inevitable: Asshole, your wife has a big butt and I bet you never get laid.

So it seems, the hair obsession has become the lawn obsession. It is not determined by genes, just by how much time your wife will allow you to spend on it, and how much testosterone you have.

By the way, our lawn looks very well, very well indeed.