All right, fellas. Time to get real. I know; that’s unusual for us dudes. We wanna be all grunty and pretend we only care about hamburgers, sex, engines, fishing, and… what the crud?! This isn’t 1954. It’s 2015, and guess what. We’re allowed to be human, and have feelings, and vulnerabilities, and we’re allowed to actually think more deeply about how our expectations and actions affect other people such as… the women we love. We’re allowed to do all that and still be loogie hacking, fart ripping, bar brawling dum dums.
Anyway. Rewind time to the end of the last decade when I was married to an insatiably beautiful woman for an incredibly short stint of time. I could go into all the details of her beauty, but the one thing I loved more than anything about her physical appearance was her vibrant red hair which draped so gorgeously, so thick, and so long behind her.
She and I were married in a day and age when I still had an overwhelming desire to be all grunty and pretend to love doing things like mowing the lawn, changing my own engine oil, or building big exaggerated decks onto a house I already couldn’t afford.
She would complain often of how much work that gorgeous head of hair was for her to maintain. And I was a total tool to her every single time she did.
She would tell me she how she needed salon quality hair products. I would grunt and tell her how ridiculous that was. “The cheap stuff is just fine! I can get a three-gallon jug for $1.29!” I’d tell her.
She would explain to me how much less of the good product she needed, and prove to me with sound mathematics how it actually paid for itself compared to the cheap stuff. I would then grunt a manly grunt and finally give in, with some meat-headed financial lecture affixed to my concession.
She would spend so much time every day drying and styling her hair, causing us to be late nearly everywhere we went. I would grunt and gripe and moan about it and then freely enjoy feeling like the man when everyone would tell me how gorgeous she (and her hair) was… Everywhere we went.
And then there was the day I was the most giant tool of all the days I was a total tool to her.
She casually mentioned that she was thinking of chopping it off to something more manageable. Apparently she was tired of dealing with it and most likely even more so of me grunting and being a dill weed about it. I’ve briefly told you about this before, but that day I just unleashed on her with more grunting and whining and complaining and told her how awful it would be if she ever did such a thing, and how much I loved her hair, and how it was the main reason I was attracted to her. I don’t even know if she finished telling me she wanted to do it before I went off on my crazy overwhelming diatribe. It probably went something like this:
“I’m thinking of cutting my hair a little sh…”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO WAY THAT’S HAPPENING!!! BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA I’M A MAN AND I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR NEEDS. BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA.”
There. Have I painted a picture to make all the women of the world despise me yet? I hope so. I deserve every single bit of disdain I get for how I treated her and every woman I married or dated up to her when it came to their hair. Gah. No wonder I was divorced twice by the unripened age of 30.
And guess what. Men everywhere are just as big of tools as I was. Most of us love our long-haired counterparts.
As for she and I, time went on. We divorced. I grew up. I dissected myself and looked through an electron microscope at every way I seemed to view the world. I mentally dove into that marriage once it ended. How it fell apart. How it failed. The dynamics I was to blame for and where I needed to make big changes. Of all the things that happened in that marriage, none of them began to increasingly haunt me as much as that man-tantrum I threw. That tantrum about… her hair.
Not my hair.
Fast forward some more, and we get to a moment in my life where I decided to grow my own hair out for the main purpose of finally understanding something I never had, and to get right with a weird misogynistic need that had always been innate to me.
I sincerely wanted to learn exactly what it takes to take care of long hair and what it’s like to actually have a head full of long hair. And do you know what I have learned? Long hair has its benefits, but for the most part… it friggin’ sucks.
So lend me your ears, men of the world. And next time a woman tells you she’s frustrated with having long hair, you might wanna think twice before throwing a tizzy-fit of your own. I’ve written a list of all the things I never expected to learn about having long hair, and I think it would do you good to read through it.