My husband didn’t tell me he was growing his hair long. He didn’t mention a ponytail. And he definitely did not say a word about a man bun.
When I asked him why he never discussed this with me he said, “I did. I told you I wanted something to cover my bald spot.”
“I thought you meant make-up. Or a weave.”
In his defense, it’s not like I woke up one day and suddenly found my hair bands missing. I’d been watching and commenting, hoping he’d get a grip.
“So, how do your friends like your new hair?” I asked.
“Nobody said they hated it. Jenny said I remind her of Jason Momoa.”
I’m not sure what Jenny’s intentions are toward my husband, but I’m keeping my eye on her from now on.
I tried being more direct. I told him the long hair made him look old. I told him it didn’t match his work out wardrobe. I told him I’d pay him to cut the hair off.
He didn’t budge.
Finally, the other day I lost it. He was twirling his hair, and then he leaned over and flicked it, like Steven Tyler. I’m sure he did it to just annoy me. I said, “Why do you even like long hair so much? I don’t get it.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “It’s like the difference between wearing glasses and contacts. I feel freer. And more like myself.”
Whatever that means. But you can’t argue with somebody who found inner peace through a hairstyle. So I let it go.
And then, one day, without warning, when I was pondering more important things than hair, this thought popped up. What would I do if anything happened to him? The guy who won me over at an outdoor dance? The guy who told our son bedtime stories every single night till he was twelve. The guy who sets up my writing spot every morning so I can start the day ready to go. The guy who took in my mother’s dog when she got sick and agreed to take my mother in, too, God help all of us. That same guy who’s been at the other end of the phone every single time I called.
He has heart stuff, and had very bad pneumonia in December. And we’re still not sure what’s happening with his lungs. It’s a little hard not to be morbid during this weird, scary time. So, yeah I’ve thought about what if? More than once.
And now he has a ponytail that I don’t fully understand and don’t like very much. But I know exactly what I’d do if something “happened.” I’d cut the ponytail off.
But just a little. I’d save enough to keep. Maybe I’d put it under my pillow. Or I’d carry it around in a pocket. For sure I’d put it somewhere safe. Somewhere to remind me. Somewhere to keep him close.