Hair Apparent

Two days later and I'm still talking about my hair.  (I know, right?  I need a hobby.  Or a life, whichever.)  But this time, it's Dan's fault.  (Shocking!  How could anything ever be Dan's fault? <cue gasp>)


Since Dan isn't always (is never) observant from August to February (unless it involves men in tight pants bending over in front of each other and fondling a football... Sorry, dude, I calls them as I sees them) a lot happens right in front of him without him being aware of it.  (During football season, I could pick up a truckload of Teamsters and have an affair in bed right next to him and as long as there was a game going on, he wouldn't notice.  Sad but true.  


(You have NO idea how much I wish I was kidding.)  


Anyway, after my hair debacle on Monday (scissors, clippers, tears), I cleaned up the mess, did what I could with product and went about my life.  Dan came from work Monday and talked about football, because for some reason, it wasn't on.  The fact that there was no Monday Night Football this week completely knocked him off his game and not one word was mentioned about the lack of hair on the back of my head.  (The poor guy spent 20 minutes frantically channel surfing, whimpering, "Where is it?  Where is it?") 


Flash forward to Tuesday:  Dan spent the evening helping his brother coach his nephew's football team.  When he finally came home he entertained me (bored me stupid) with details about 11 year old football players I don't know, will never meet, and quite honestly don't care about, then flowed smoothly into a discussion about his Fantasy Football League.  <cue sound of hamster spinning on a wheel inside my head>  (Have I mentioned how little I give a shit about football?  No?  Well, let me make it clear:  I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT FOOTBALL.)


When we finally got around to me (really?  I'm here, too?) after the banalities were gone through ("How was your day?  Any calls, messages, or email?") Dan had a rare moment of clarity.  (Which I'm pretty sure it won't happen again, at least not until that week before the World Series when no sports are on.  Not that Dan doesn't try to find some.)


Dan:  *all proud of himself for his keen powers of observation*  "I see you cut your hair today."


Me:  "Actually, I cut it yesterday, but thanks for noticing."


Dan:  *scoffing, because he knows this stuff*  "You didn't cut it yesterday."


Me:  "Really?  Because I did.  You didn't notice because you were too concerned about Monday Night Football."


Dan:  *celebrating a giant a-HA! moment that didn't actually exist*  "There WAS no Monday Night Football!"


Me:  "Exactly."


Dan:


Me:


Dan:  *recovering* "Well, anyway, I thought you were growing your hair out?"


Me:  "I am."


Dan:  "You just cut it.  How are you growing it out?"


Me:  "I cut the BACK.  That way it can all catch up and grow out together.  Otherwise it turns into a mullet."  <involuntary shudder>


Dan:  "Dani, that makes no sense."


Me:  "It makes nothing but sense."


Dan:  "It makes no sense!  How can you be growing your hair out if you're cutting off the back?!"


Me:  "You can't grow your hair out without cutting the back. You have to trim the back.  It's a rule.  (Which it totally is.)  That way it all grows out evenly."


(Seriously, dude... how can you not know this?)


Dan:  *getting annoyed*  "That's dumb.  That doesn't make any sense.  If you're cutting it, it can't be growing out.  Seriously, Dani, pull your head out of your ass."


(That's right, baby... talk dirty to me.)


Me:  "Have you ever grown your hair out?"


Dan:  "Yes, I've grown my hair out."


Me:  "No you haven't.  You've gone without getting a hair cut but you haven't grown your hair out.  It's not the same, trust me.  I know what I'm doing.  I have years of experience.  If there's one thing I know about, it's growing your hair out."  (Really... I do.)


Dan:  *unable to stop beating that poor, dead horse*  "How can you be growing your hair out if you keep cutting it?"


Me:  "Just let it go, man...  just let it go."


Dan eventually gave up the fight, after offering to call everyone he knows and ask them if what I'm saying made any sense.  (My man is all about winning the argument, yo.)  After I pointed out that it was a) 10:30 at night and b) a really stupid reason to call people, he went to bed, still shaking his head and unable to fathom the brilliant reasoning behind my current plan of action in the journey towards long, luxurious, flowing locks.


Poor dumb bastard.