With the poop-tacular state of our economy, we are always looking for innovative ways to save a few bucks around the Craig house. And at this point, we have moved far beyond the obvious choices of eliminating superfluous magazine subscriptions (take a hike, Reader’s Digest), indulgent video streamlining (hasta la vista, Netflix), and unnecessary food purchases (I never liked you anyway, vegetables).
One creative cost-cutting initiative: Home haircuts, a la my wife, Katie. Katie never went to haircutting school, but she doesn’t let that bother her. She can do our boys’ haircuts in a matter of moments, as they all look quite handsome with what the haircutting industry terms as “buzz cuts.” (I apologize if my use of haircutting jargon is confusing.)
My hair, however, is a completely different animal. A dangerous animal. A quickly graying, sometimes stubborn porcupine of an animal. And while I think Katie is quite good at cutting it, her desire for a mane of perfection guarantees it is by no means a quick procedure.
But I don’t mind the length of her process. Sitting still for that long allows time for innuendo and bum-grabbing, (conducted by yours truly), sharing of stories that we may have forgotten to tell each other that week, and reflection, generally brought on by the fact that I’m shirtless and staring into our bathroom mirror at my 41 year-old body, wondering what the crap has happened.
“I used to play water polo in high school,” I begin the conversation.
“Yep…(Katie snaps the No. 3 clip onto the razor)…you’ve told me.”
“Yep…(Katie snaps the No. 3 clip onto the razor)…you’ve told me.”
“I’m just saying…you know…there was a time when you could have washed laundry on these abs…instead of…whatever…dishes, I guess.”
“You look just fine,” she assures me.
“HOW ARE YOU EVEN ATTRACTED TO ME?” I question.
“HOW ARE YOU EVEN ATTRACTED TO ME?” I question.
“You’re very attractive,” she responds, not looking at me while she snaps off the No. 3 from the razor. “Now, did you want me to shave your back while I’ve got this out?”
I pout silently for a while, thoughtfully considering that perhaps our bodies resurrect at their age 18 version. Then Katie pulls me out of my funk with a story.
“Did I tell you that Becca has been singing to herself when she’s sitting on the toilet?” We laugh and then it’s my turn. “Did I tell you about the check-out lady at Wal-Mart that told me if I was going to buy this much produce then I should probably shop somewhere else?” Then we discuss our strategy to own beach-front property and be independently wealthy some day, and it’s awesome.
So then we’re feeling all lovey-dovey and I’m already only half-dressed, so of course I turn on the charm and start in with the innuendo. We’re in close proximity, alone AND awake, so all three elements of “romance” are in the air. With scissors in her hand, me sitting on a bucket, and bits of hair all over both of us, I start singing the Righteous Brother’s Unchained Melody and, as you can imagine, the scene looks exactly like…well, whatever the opposite of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore is.
Sometime later Katie takes a step back, squints at my head, and closely examines her work. She’s her toughest critic. When she’s finally satisfied, I jump in the shower and sing to her while she sweeps up the hair. For some reason, more than almost anything else we do together, this moment makes me feel like we are already 82 years-old and there are no stories we don’t know about each other and we just enjoy the fact that it’s us, in all our glorious and unsightly details.
I guess I don’t mind all the effects of our lackluster economy.
