The Girlf is stressed. After a successful week of dieting her weight loss has ground to a halt. Six pounds and six days into it she is listless and irritable, she moans about her headaches and mopes around the house grumbling.
I compliment her on how good she’s looking but she just scowls at me.
‘This is all your fault!’ she growls.
With the wedding now less than a year away she is intent on slimming down. The fear of being considered a plus size bride has gripped her and her massive chocolate addiction is being tackled head on. The one who has to pay for her cold turkey is me. With no chocolate to stabilise her mood she’s taken to sitting and quietly rocking. Eyes fixed on nothing, she quietly mumbles incoherently to her self.
All my tender interjections of comfort are met with the death glare. I don’t understand and I don’t care it seems so no matter how much I cajole or pamper my sweet honeyed words fall on deaf ears, her mind is distant and fixated on the idea of Dairy milk.
To compound my pain simultaneously she has decided to give up Diet Coke. Her Diet Coke addiction has been the elephant in the room of our relationship. Maybe not so much an elephant in the room, more a pile of empty Diet Coke cans of equal size and mass to an elephant in the lounge. Clearing her empties away everyday would keep a couple of Polish women gainfully employed.
I would go as far as to say that I’ve actually noticed a marked improvement in the tone and shape of my ass since I moved in three months ago. I put this down to spending twenty minutes a day running up and down the stairs my arms full of half empty tinnies.
Subsequently she isn’t her usually happy bubbly self at the moment what with being constantly caffeine deprived and on a permanent sugar crash. She looks good for it though. No pain, no gain I suppose.
It’s becoming very apparent that I need a car. I am stuck in the middle of nowhere. Getting into town has become a military operation. There is no just strolling in anymore. My day has to be meticulously planned so everything I need to do at home is done before I ring a cab. Only then can I venture to do any other chores that involve human contact.
I now plan a trip to the bank days in advance. Once I’m in town I’m in town, there is no popping home anymore so a day when I go in early before work is a one stop shop. I have to clear my copy book in one fell swoop.
Yesterday was such a day. My beard had started to take over my face and my hair was several different lengths making me look exceptionally bald. I couldn’t put off a trip to the barbers any longer and I needed to get to the bank to top up the wedding fund. I never made it last week and subsequently spent too much of my wages. Clearly I needed to rectify that this week and pay in the difference. This week’s austerity juxtaposing last week’s frivolity.
So I entered the barbers near enough penniless and in a fit of unexplainable generosity which I can’t fathom I allowed a woman to cut my hair. I rarely allow a girl to get her hands on my head. My life has been a winding procession of women fucking up my hair. From childhood the prejudice has been justified over and over again and yesterday didn’t sway my conviction one little bit.
In all fairness my hair looks fine. It’s exactly what I asked for and she has made an excellent job of making me not look bald. Unfortunately she has decimated my beard.
My request was simple, a number one over the beard. That’s all a wanted, that’s exactly what I ment. Take the clippers, attach the number one setting and run it over my beard. I simple enough request you would think. For some reason she took it upon her self to give me a tidy up and before a realised what was going on she was shaving one corner of my neck into a neat curve.
I am totally at ease with my hairy neck; in fact I like my hairy neck. What I don’t like is the neat, gay looking beard cut she’s given me. Of course once she’d done the one side I was totally committed to having the other side done. I quietly simmered as she gave me a clearly defined border between skin and hair, smiling she turned my face into pre nineties Berlin. I will have to see a man about it when it grows out a bit next week.
Beards aren’t ment to be tidy and sculptured. I beard by definition is near enough an effortless procedure. You don’t choose to have one; you choose NOT to have one. Messing around with it defeats its purpose. You end up looking poncey and gay. All paedophiles have goatees, have you noticed that?
So now the shore line of my facial hair has been artificially pushed inland by several inches and for some reason it’s made me look like I’ve got a double chin. I’ve gone from caveman to medallion man in one sitting.
I swear on my cross I will never allow a woman to cut my hair again. This is an abomination to far.
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