Writing about writing is like a barbershop mirror, where you can see your ears getting lowered for infinity. I'll assume women's hairdressers don't use the same cliches and poor jokes as most barbers, but I don't know if they substitute them with anything better than gossip. I have enough difficulty staying awake through a haircut. It isn't that the chair is comfortable. Nor is the hot buzz of clippers near my jugular vein encouraging. It could be some primal response - when I unknowingly fear something to that extent, my body shuts down and craves slumber? Dunno.
This is probably why I let my wife cut my hair now. Because there's nothing like giving a woman who has to endure me every day of our lives - FOREVER - a sharp pair of scissors and carte blanche with my head. My trims are a good opportunity for the two of us to catch up on the events of the day, what's on our minds and hearts, how we can better encourage one another, etc. I force myself to filter my words, but there are opportunities for bad jokes everywhere, and I can't keep all of them subsided. They rarely make her laugh; more importantly, she's been able to contain her anger better than I've been able to contain my snark. Thankfully, I've not been shaved bald. Yet.
As might be expected, when it was time for a different kind of snip, I shut up and let the vasectomy doctor do his job. Better drugs.
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