Yes, That’s My Head!

Saving thousands of dollars by home haircuts over the last thirteen years no longer seems worth it. Due to a terrible, unpredictable mechanical failure, the 1/4 inch attachment comb on my Andis made-in-China, no-hassle, easy-clean, do-it-yourself, haircut-in-a-box, electric clipper automatically detached. Detached!

Utter disaster ensued. Just as the soothing hum and mesmerizing buzz of the clipper began to lull me into a peaceful trance, I suddenly felt the vibrating metal blade cold against my skin. For a moment it tingled, but it was the kind of tingle that nauseates you. Before I could pull away, shout, or strike out at the maleficent machine in self-defense, it was too late. The damage was done . . . irreversible . . . irreparable.

For several minutes after I realized what happened, every cuss word imaginable ran through my mind . . . and some crossed my lips. I distinctly remember uttering “Holy Mother of God,” a phrase I’ve never used in my life and, because I’m not Roman Catholic, does not technically qualify as a sin.

My wife was comforting, but honest. Yes, she confessed instantly that it was horrible. No, it wasn’t her fault. The attachment comb failed to stay attached. It simply, silently, slid to the floor on the up-stroke. And thus the deed was done by the gentle hand of my beloved wife—innocently, without malice, but done nonetheless.

I sat in ponderous silence for several minutes, considering my options. Shave my whole head? Never, though two of my colleagues in Theological Studies would be oh so delighted if I did. Hide in my home for a week? Impossible. Shave the other side the same way and pretend it was intended? Come on, now!

As my mind raced, my wife sheepishly chimed in with a suggestion: “I could shave it all off along the back…”

I winced. “I’ll look like a monk,” I blurted, apparently concluding that looking like an idiot would be far better.

After re-attaching the easily-detachable 1/4 inch attachment, my wife carefully finished clipping my hair like she had done every month for the last thirteen years. But this time a somber, almost sacred air rudely intruded on an otherwise joyous and carefree ritual. Like an undertaker grooming a corpse for a funeral, my wife finished the job and examined the damage more carefully.

Still horrible.

After a few minutes of wrangling, we decided to try clipping the back of my head an additional 1/8 inch, hoping to blend the bald spot in with its surroundings. But we quickly learned that blending only works if both patches have something to offer. Blending baldness in with itself doesn’t work.

So now I’m stuck with what looks like a failed attempt at cutting a road through a wheat field. Or—to use an analogy more appropriate for the thinness of my hair—like digging a canal through a desert. It isn’t merely noticeable, it’s laughable! I might as well have my wife write “Look at this!” across the space with a bold Sharpie.

After emerging from a long, hot shower, I gave my dear wife an embrace that said, “Don’t worry about it,” and informed her that I would do the only thing anybody can do in a situation like this.

I’ll draw as much attention to it and make as much fun of it as possible before it grows back.