Twice, my marriage has been rocked by hair, of all things. The first time I was heavily pregnant. It was not a difficult pregnancy, but I was extra emotional and there was no knowing what would cause me to cry a river, and I only cried huge rivers. For instance, my husband was very predictable in his arrival time after work and if he was ten minutes late, I would stand at the balcony and cry. It was that bad.
So that first time, he, the man I call my bed mate, came home from work with his beautiful locks chopped off. I was on the sofa watching television when who I thought was a stranger opened the door, and smiled at me. It took me a few moments to recognise him. I broke down, and cried for hours. For those hours, I could not talk but I was processing the betrayal posing as a lover. How could he, knowing very well how much I treasured his hair, chop it off without asking for my opinion!
It took me years to forgive him and when I think about it hard, I doubt I ever forgave him. I just learned how to live with it. Since, any barber visit has to be passed by me in case, you know, I do not want him to wash his hair! His locks are back, but he still casually mentions when he is going to have them retouched. I feel bad, but I do not feel bad. Serves him right for making me think that he did not want me anymore and was trying to make himself unattractive to me.
Double standards
Fast forward, over a decade into our marriage and I decided to get myself a mohawk. There is some double standards involved here, because I did not inform him that I was about to drastically change my hairstyle. To be fair, I did not inform me either. See, being a woman comes with erratic hormones, and I blame them for why I went for a walk and entered the nearest barber shop without a second thought. I braced myself for the lecture that was bound to happen in my house, that one of some rules only applying to some and not others.
Day one, dude looked at me, or so I thought because his eyes were on me, kissed me hello, but said nothing about my glaring mohawk. To excuse the inexcusable behaviour, I concluded that he was too shocked (he didn’t look shocked at all) for words. So I decided not to mention it, no point in poking a hornet’s nest, right?
Day two, same routine. But nothing about my hair. I was starting to lose it as I concluded it was his way of punishing me. Like, I punished him by howling for hours, he was punishing me with silence. Day three, I had had it, because I have never been one to let things consume me from within.
“Why haven’t you said anything about my hair?” I demanded.
“What about your hair?” he asked, his eyes going to my head, and I watched his eyes grow wide in shock. I know he is an actor, but it was obvious he was not acting.
I was shocked. And hurt. How could anyone miss a mohawk? When this man looked at me, did he even see me? Is that not how one can be so easily replaced, because, clearly, it doesn’t matter who is standing in front of him? But wait: This could sound like excusing the inexcusable behaviour, but is that not comfort of some sort? Or even level of trust? In his own defence, apparently he prefers to look at other things that happen to be below the waistline. He trusts everything above the head enough not to keep supervising it.
Clearly, I am easy to impress, because I was sold to that explanation, but I would rather believe it because one, it was hilarious and two, it is comfortable.
Good thing, I did not have to answer questions on why I went for a mohawk. It was not like I knew why, anyway.
Men are not visual beings, men are what they allow testosterones to dictate.
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