You Know You’re A Redneck….

…if you get your husband to cut your hair.

A few posts back, I wrote about my latest hair cutting experience at a salon. I ended up with a femullet (female version of the mullet) . In case you forgot or haven’t read the post, I looked something like this…..

FEMULLETS

Well, not really as horribly stare-provoking as those hair-dos. And, if you didn’t click on the Femullet link, you are really missin’ out on some mighty fine redneck dos (and don’ts).

After a week of being mistaken for a tobacco chewin’, raccoon huntin’, barefoot hickabilly, I knew that I needed to do something about my hair style or lack of style. Especially when my youngest daughter in a kindly manner pointed out that my hair was “awfully long in back compared to the front”. And, I retorted with, “Don’t talk to an officer in the Mulletia with that tone, little missy!”

I’ve been known to color, highlight, lowlight, and even cut my own hair on occasion. Sometimes, I had not so bad results and other times, I looked like I had stuck my head in a woodchipper/painter mixer combo.

And, as any good white trash/redneck female knows, summer is not the time to feel the need to wrap your head in multiple layers of bandanas to hide a home-done do. This could produce enough sweat during humid days to produce a tiny Beetlejuice head.

Femullets are a must-have look at mudbogging, flea markets, or mattress surfing. But, since becoming WTWM (white trash with money), I no longer participate in these events. I’ve moved on up to actual Nascar, Sears, and Baskin-Robbins and need a hair-do that mirrors my steppin’ up.

I needed a trimover (kinda like a make-over but limited to the hair). What to do? I decided to cut the back of my hair myself. But, once, I got out my scissors and mirror, I was overcome with the realization that this could be a serious mistake. I could end up with a Mohawkmullet and didn’t want to risk the enormous amount of ridicule that I’d be subjected to.And, I was afraid to go back to the hairdresser who had given me the mullet in the first place. In my original post about getting the mullet, I rtold y’all how the hairdresser had being having major problems in her life and was extremely despondent. I unfortunately did not notice her despair until the scissors had been flying about my head for a few minutes. By then, my locks were hitting the floor soaked with her tears. God bless her heart. Seriously. I do hope that she took my suggestion of taking time off and finding a really good therapist.

So, who else could I trust my tresses to? My hubby, of course! First, he is a perfectionist. The man literally measures the distance between each end of the sofa to make sure that they are exactly the same distance from the wall. No fartin’ around with that man. One sixteeth of an inch is unacceptable. When we moved into this house, he measured the bed’s distance from a pillar in our bedroom. I spent half a damn day shoving that big Paul Bunyon size bed back and forth just a “tinch or a tad”. One of my biggest secret pleasures is to go around moving furniture ever so slightly when I am pissed at him. Just to see if he notices. He does. Just to piss him off. It does. In his next life, he needs to come back as an inch worm.

Our biggest fight in recent years was over a smiley face sticker. Here’s what happened….

We are working on our house as we go. Our family room is not finished and is being used as storage for building materials. There was a large stack of unfinished baseboards stored. I had company in from out of town and we had set up a couple of tables in that room. It was my nephew’s birthday and we had the usual cake and ice cream. After they left, I immediately knew something was not right with hubby. My uh-oh-here-comes-trouble radar was going off. I dove head into this one and asked him what was wrong.

Me…”What’s wrong with you.? You look like you’re ready to kill.”

DH….”Who put that smiley sticker on my stack of baseboards”.

Me…”Huh?”

DH…”.Somebody put a yellow smiley sticker on my stack of baseboards.”

Me…”That’s one of the stupidest things that I have ever heard. Nobody put a smiley sticker on your damn baseboards! And, if they did, so what?”

DH….”I don’t like people messing with my stuff.”

Me…”Well, maybe, a reverse burglar snuck in and instead of taking stuff, left a smiley face sticker on your baseboards. That has to be it!”

DH…..”mumble mumble mumble f%$k#@%g mumble”. I swear that’s what he said. And, then he stomps off to pout because I refused to play the Who Put The Sticker On My Shit game.

We did not speak for a few days until he realized how asinine and childish he was being. Either that, or the fact that I went back to our old house and stayed a couple of nights got to him. The house was for sale and I’m pretty sure buyers wouldn’t appreciate a woman sleeping on a mattress in the bedroom. So, maybe, that’s what moved him to call and apologize.

Once again, I am off-topic. Sue me. It’s my blog and I’ll wander if I choose to.

So, I asked my hubby to cut my hair. I must have been in the middle of an Ambien induced hallucination where I thought he/I were normal people. At first, he refused but I persisted. I pestered him relentlessly. I threatened to shave my whole head. His reply to that, “Go ahead!” Finally, he agreed to do it.

I handed him the scissors and told him to cut one inch off of the bottom. He informed me that we would need a towel, a mirror, and we must go outside to keep hair from getting on everything. OK…fine with me. I got the requested stuff and we went outside….where is was sprinkling rain.

I put the towel around my neck and stood perfectly still waiting for him to cut. Thinking this would only take a few minutes, I didn’t mind the fact that I was getting rained on. He put the scissors up. Then, he took them down. He took a comb and combed and combed and combed. I thought my dang scalp would start bleeding at any second. He took his finger and measured from tip to knuckle and showed me how much he would cut. Fine with me. Although, I should have known, I was caught off-guard when he cut about 5 hairs and showed them to me to make sure that it was the right amount. And, it went like this…..

DH…”Is this the right amount?”

Me…”Yes, that’s good”.

Finger up measuring tip to knuckle. Snip, snip….5 more hairs.

DH…:”Is this OK?”, showing me the five hairs.

Me…”Yes, dear. That’s great. Cut them all just like that.”

Finger up measuring tip to knuckle. Snip, snip….10 hairs this time. Comb, comb, comb. Finger up measuring tip to knuckle. Snip, snip. And, rain, rain.

Me….”You almost done? That rain is kinda cold.”

DH….”Ya want me to finish this or not. HOLD STILL!”

Finger measure. Snip, snip. 10 more hairs. Finger measure. Snip, snip……10 more hairs.

Me….”Will you stop that damn measuring and just cut the friggin’ stuff?! I said with rain pouring into my mouth.

I’ll save you from the next 30 minutes or so measure and snip. Finally, he was done. And, it looked good.

Maybe, it was worth it. But, I’ll kick my own ass if I ever ask him for highlights!