TH once told me that when women marry, they get fat and cut their hair. Inititally, I blew up in feminist annoyance to defended my sex. I knew plenty of hot wives, MILFS and even a few GILFS. Sure there were those few that popped out a kid or two, declared themselves lifetime bonbon eaters and plopped on the couch to watch soap operas. But, most of the women I knew looked just fine. They didn't get all tarted up everyday to impress their husband, but why should they. They'd already snagged the man. Love conquers ugliness and cellulite, right?
I always said I would never be one of those wives that stopped trying to look good for my husband. Sure it takes a few extra minutes to brush out my hair after a shower instead of leaving it up in a bun, stray damp tendrils hanging in my face. But, I have pretty hair and he always liked it down. I could do that for him. It was a just a few minutes. And my post shower outfit didn't have to be sweats and t-shirt. I could take a few moments, find a nice sundress or cute boy shorts to sashay around the house in. That wasn't too much to ask. Well, apparently I forgot my pre-marital oath. The other day, post shower, I happened to glance in the mirror before I went downstairs to watch TV. Standing in my place, was the scariest woman I have ever seen. She was wearing ancient, faded, olive colored plaid men's pajama pants 3 sizes too big and a ratty baby blue sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled up a half assed snarly bun, she had a dollop of face cream on the side of her neck and a mascara smudge under one eye. She smelled like vanilla creme, but looked like something you would fish out of your drain. She was completely unfuckable. I wouldn't have done her with a borrowed dick.
Panicked that I had bought a ticket and stepped on the train to Uglyville, I tidied up my hair, rubbed in the face cream and wiped off the mascara smudge. I didn't bother changing my outfit because, well, I didn't give a damn about that at the moment. I was comfortable. Besides, he was dress in sweats and a old concert tshirt. I didn't see him putting on a tux for me. I was annoyed at myself for sliding into this slump. I am aware that I do look cute in comfy old Pj's. But, I didn't need to completely slide into this forbidden territory.
I always said I'd never be one of those wives who nagged their husband. I'd seen it on TV and I'd seen it with other couples I knew. The poor husband was nagged to death with "Honey do's" and such. I told myself when I got married I wouldn't fishwife my husband to death. I'd sweetly remind him of forgotten chores and casually ask him if he had finished a task.
Well, that didn't stick. Frankly, lovers....the man needs to be nagged. I will love him and no other 'til the day I die, but he is a S.L.O.B! Shoes are everywhere, clothes are on the floor and he some how manages to get bar soap stuck to the sides of the sink and the shower. There it sits, hardening like cement, until I have to chip it off when I clean the bathrooms. There is also the shelf that has been sitting on our kitchen floor for four months. I tried to mount it to the wall, but my horrible carpentry skills failed me. He said he would mount it for me. I'm still waiting.
I always said I'd never be one of those wives that chopped off all their hair. The dreaded "Mom Bob". I have long, thick, shiny, strong, silky, gorgeous hair. I like to think of it as a consolation prize. When God realized he forgot to give me boobs, he made up for it with awesome hair. When I have it looking really nice, random people come up to me and comment on it. Some have even reached out to touch it like I'm some animal in a petting zoo.
I was always jealous of those people who donated their hair to make wigs for cancer patients. The companies barred those of us who color our hair from donating. Obviously, coloring you hair weakens the strands and makes it less desirable for wigs. Recently, the wig companies have become desperate for hair and have started making allowances for colored hair. Excited at the chance to do my part, I started to seriously consider donating my hair. My stylist was wary of my decision and made me think about it for 2 months before I did it. She didn't want this to be another rash decision like the time I went platinum blonde (I wanted to look like Jessica Simpson) only to call her crying five days later, begging her turn me back to my old color.
Two months later, on March 22, 2008, I was sitting in her chair, my hair in ponytails and she was measure out the required eight inches. Then I heard "snip, snip - snip, snip". It was done. My hair was cut just above my shoulders and there were two thick ropes of my beautiful hair on her counter. The first thought that went through my head was, "Yea! That's gonna make an awesome wig for someone". The second thought was "Holy SHIT! I have a "Mom Bob""
Needless to say, I made it through the mini-meltdown that followed. My desire to do good overwhelmed my psychotic state. When I got home, TH just stared at me. I hadn't told him I was going under the knife.
"Don't worry", I said. "It will grow back". As I turned to walk away, I glanced over my shoulder and said, "And I promise not to get fat"