How I Annoy My Husband: My Hair

                                    (with illustration by Kat Russo)

    Part I

    At least twenty times each day I ask Paul, “Have you seen my hair?”

The question doesn’t mean I have lost my hair, but it might mean two completely different things:

 “Doesn’t it look ridiculous?” Or

“Hey, it actually looks good at this moment!”

    Poor Paul is left to decipher what I mean by my expression and tone of voice. He usually glances at my face and hair to see if I’m smiling with glee or shaking my head with a despondent frown.

    Since the COVID-19 pandemic began ten years ago (it seems that long ago anyway,) I have decided to avoid getting my hair cut. I don’t want to expose myself to indoor areas in close proximity to a possible virus carrier for a prolonged period of time.

     I have had bangs for the past 35 years and letting them grow has been traumatic.  I pin them back with bobby pins, clip them to the side, or use a clip with a side part.  The rest of my hair used to be worn in a short cut, so now it’s growing out in what looks like a 70’s mullet combined with an 80’s perm.  None of those styles is currently fashionable nor particularly attractive.  So when I wake up in the morning I’m full of despair.  I shouldn’t even look in the mirror, but of course I do. 

    The face staring back at me is usually partially hidden behind a mass of unkempt brown tangles rising several inches in random directions.

    “Have you seen my hair?”

    I ask Paul, even though he’s been sitting across from me at the breakfast table and was hopefully looking at my face between spoonfuls of cereal.

    Paul has stopped saying, “Oh no, we’re talking about your hair again.” He’s begun saying, “Your hair looks nice.” This comment prompts me to jump up and check my reflection in the small kitchen mirror on the other side of the counter to see if it’s changed somehow. He often says it and waits and watches to see how long it will take me to look at that mirror. Sometimes I try and resist, but my inner thoughts will go something like this:

    I wonder if my hair actually does look good? How amazing would that be!

    Or

    Maybe he’s kidding and it looks ridiculous.  I’d hate to miss a good early morning laugh!

    Usually, it’s the latter and usually I’m right.

    Immediately after I wash it, my locks wave into something that has me resembling Shirley Temple in the movie “The Good Ship Lollipop.”  She was probably about six years old when she made that movie.  Not a good look for a woman of my advanced age.

    As soon as I put on a hat, my hair flattens into an uneven mess in some sort of shag again, not currently fashionable nor particularly attractive.  So when we take our early morning walk before my shower, I put on my hat with a small prayer.

Dear Lord, I pray I will not have to take off my hat for any reason whatsoever.

    Yes, there are more important prayers and I promise I say them too. Right after the hair one. 

    It’s amazing how a bad hairdo can ruin a person’s day, or give them a lift.  I mean, your hair surrounds your face in a kind of frame, right?  But it also can be an indication of your physical and emotional health. A woman can wear no make-up (like me during the pandemic,) but if her hair looks horrible, we think there’s definitely something wrong with her.  I should try and attend one of my Zoom meetings without fixing it and see how long it takes for the women to shout,

 “OH MY GOD, are you ok??”

    I’m not saying men wouldn’t notice, but they probably wouldn’t--not until the women shouted out with sincere concern and offers to bring food to an obviously very sickly person.

    My Hair, Part II 

    The other question Paul has been hearing since the pandemic (and for many years before) is:

    “Should I color my hair?”

    This is another trick question. If Paul says, “No” it means he doesn’t like how it looks when I color it or that he doesn’t care either way.  If he says “Yes” it means he doesn’t like it gray, or doesn’t care either way.

     He usually says something neutral like, ‘Whichever way you like it is fine with me.”  Or if he’s trying to win points, “You look beautiful either way.” Or if he’s tired of the whole hair conversation, “Are we talking about your hair again?” 

    I drive myself insane by obsessing over how my inch-long gray roots contrast with the faded red hair on my scalp. I become so offended with myself that I finally decide to color it again.

    Right after I color it, I assume that Paul has not noticed me walking around the house in a ratty red- stained tee shirt for 30 minutes, my hair wet and piled tightly on my head, or the noxious ammonia scent coming from the bathroom nearby his study. I know he will also not notice my noticeably different hair color (noticeably different to me since I study it at great length) because 1) He’s working from home and has more important things to think about and 2) He’s a man.

     I walk into the room interrupting his online meeting and shout,

     “Look, I colored my hair!”

    Paul sees my smile and says, “Wow, it looks great!” Ten points for my patient husband.

 

            How I Annoy My Husband:  “Quaranteam” Edition

          “How am I annoying you during our ‘quaranteam?’”  I asked Paul several months into the Covid-19 pandemic.

          He spent the next hour listing all of the ways I had been annoying him while I scribbled them down.  I would have been hurt if I hadn’t been doing research for my next essay.  So far, he hasn’t contacted a divorce lawyer—that I know of.  Maybe he’s waiting until he can see one face-to-face.

          Paul dubbed me the “Health and Safety Czar” since I have taken it upon myself to protect us against the virus. I take my job seriously, much to Paul’s chagrin. It’s a good thing I’m retired since this is a full time job.

          After our governor called the stay-at-home order, I decided we wouldn’t go into the grocery store. We began using the online order and pick-up.  Paul didn’t mind missing our shopping trip, but I’ve been annoying him with my constant complaining about our order.

          “I ordered a large package of eight boneless skinless chicken thighs and they gave me only four thighs with bones and skins,” I whined. 

          “They gave us whole milk and yogurt, instead of low fat, and there’s no tomato sauce in this order.”After the next order, “I can’t believe they’re out of frozen stir fry vegetables and instead of spaghetti they gave us wooden toothpicks!”

          “Spaghetti and toothpicks are both long and thin except for the toothpicks,” Paul joked.

          Then he listened to my additional complaints without adding much conversation or commiseration. I get it. I do the cooking and he’s happy if there’s something to eat for dinner.

          Once he suggested, “Let’s go to the store and you can get what you want.”

          “It’s not safe. People don’t wear masks or gloves and there’s virus on everything.”

          Paul misses Costco.  Even without the free samples he likes their bargains and selection. We both miss their discounted wine, but I refuse to go there. I finally suggested we splurge and have some delivered from a local winery.  Paul balked at the price which was three times what we usually spend on a bottle.  I finally convinced him by saying we’d be supporting the local economy and we can at least have a buzz during these trying times.

          My protocol for getting our mail bothers Paul, but he goes along.  I noticed the mail carrier wearing rubber gloves, but once he actually held it with bare hands. This sent me into a panic. Now when Paul gets the mail, he holds the key in his right hand, opens our mail box with the same hand, takes out the mail with his left hand and returns to the house.  He opens the door with the right hand then washes his hands thoroughly.  We don’t open letters for 24 hours as they sit on the kitchen floor while we wait for the virus to die.  Rufus, our cat, has decided to sit on it all for some reason. I guess he’s not afraid of the virus.

         Several months ago, we ordered take out from a local restaurant.  We waited at the curb side pick-up while looking forward to a delicious meal.  The associate brought out our food in a paper sack but he wasn’t wearing gloves.  The order was missing dessert so we called about the missing item. The same man, sans gloves, brought the dessert in a plastic container.  I considered this so dangerous; I spent several minutes wiping down all the containers with Clorox wipes as soon as we brought the food home. When I accidentally touched a plate with a contaminated container as I was dumping it out, I began crying and shouted “I can’t do this, it’s too much.”  Paul gave me a hug. We never spoke of it again, but that was the last time we got take out for a few months.

          Paul is able to do his work on the computer from home, but I’m not able to do most of the things I used to do. Everything is closed now. I can’t tutor students at the local school, go to my writing class, or volunteer at the non-profit organization.  I can’t meet my friends for lunch. All my meetings were on Zoom and I was tired of looking at my self-view and silently criticizing my hair.  It’s frustrating. I know I should be grateful Paul has an income and we have food to eat, but that doesn’t stop me from complaining.

          “I’m bored” I frequently tell him while he’s trying to work.

          “Why don’t you watch The Crown?”

          “I can’t watch TV. I have too much to do.”

          Paul rolled his eyes, knowing I’ll come up with something to keep me busy eventually.

          My most important job is updating the online shopping list.  Once I place the initial order, I have a week to modify it.  And boy do I modify it.  I probably change my order 30-40 times.  Add this, omit that. Obsess about ordering this since I’ll probably not get that.  After all, we only get some of the food we need once a week.

          I call friends and family each day and chat loudly as I walk around the house dusting, sweeping, and cleaning and disinfecting the bathrooms and counters. My friends have stopped asking me what I’m doing when they hear the water running or the washing machine rumbling on my end. I do also word searches and word scrambles.

“Help! I need a three letter word using j, f, z, a, q, and w,” I tell Paul.

He always figures out the missing word.

          “Can you find ‘impossible?’”  As usual, he can find it.

          I also email and text friends and family.  I try to limit my time on Facebook since it’s a time-sink and I have too much else to do. I practice ukulele, do some writing, and try to read through the 1,000 magazines we have piled in the bathroom. I read People from cover to cover and now know who’s married to whom and how many children they have.

“Did you know Dennis Quaid is 66 and is marrying a 26-year-old?”

I tell Paul in disbelief. 

          “Nice gig if you can get it.” He answered.