A Close Shave
We had one of those special times a week or so ago. Bridget went to my mother-in-law’s for a few days of spoiling so Maria and I had lots of free time to ourselves.
We totally took advantage of this. We went out to eat a couple of times. We went to see a movie. Basically, we had a very brief practice run for when we have an empty nest.
So naturally, I tried to wring every ounce of fun out of the time. The way the arrangements worked out, I had to get to York by 1 p.m. on a Saturday in order to pick up Bridget. Maria worked that day so I had a few hours to myself.
As I looked in the mirror Saturday morning, I knew I had a couple of options. One, of course, was to stay at home and do nothing productive until I had to hop in the car. The other option stared right back at me from the mirror. I needed a haircut.
Well, I thought I did. I had not had one in a while, and things had started to get a little out of control. Saturday morning seemed like a good time to get a haircut, but sitting on the couch catching up on episodes of “Hawaii Five-O” I recorded almost two months ago also sounded appealing.
So I followed the most important lesson I have learned in a decade and a half of marriage: I asked her how my hair looked. She said I could wait a week, so the unruly mop on my head got a reprieve.