Frankly, I given up. I decided that the only way to tame the mane was to let it take over my entire body. I let the back grow into my shirt collar. My bangs overtook my eyebrows, making all looks of astonishment obsolete. My ears also disappeared underneath the sideburns from hell, which accounts for all times I could not hear important chore lists from the Queen. At the same time, I decided not to trim my beard so it would not conflict with the homeless motif I had going on.
By the time the Queen had enough and ordered my haircut, I approximately looked like this:
|Very distinguished, but I had the nagging suspicion that soon I would get fleas|
I relented because I subscribe to the mantra, "Happy wife, happy life." On Saturday, we bundled up the Princess and braved the elements to Platinum Black and happened to run into a miracle worker. Lizzie took one look at the hot mess in front of her, rolled up her sleeves, and gave a viking yawp that would please the gods. I admit it, I blacked out a bit and don't know exactly what happened, but I heard from others in the shop that it was like watching Da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa.
When I came to, Lizzie talked about my hair as "hip" and "stylish." I'm not too sure how "hip" a work-at-home dad who has seen all three seasons of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic can be, but for one shining moment, I'll take it. So how do I look? Pretty damn good!
|Picture under protest because of background issues. The Queen just wanted you to know.|
I may even amount to a "Hey, Bud" guy. You know when you meet someone who has it so together that when they shake your hand for the first time, they also give you a arm slap and say, "Hey, Bud," like you have known them for years. The guy who always wears his jacket at a party because he's "only staying for one drink." With this new do and some new clothes, I could attain that unreachable milestone.
Or I could become a model. A husky model with awesome hair.