Zeus is a God

My husband has hair trauma. Whenever I tell him his hair's getting long, he either tells me like a defiant 5-year-old "no it's not" or he shoots me a pained look and launches into a several-day-long internet search to find a good hairstyle. He emerges and presents me with a photo of how he would like his hair to look.

I know what you're thinking: 'But Jessica, you never went to beauty school, you have a degree in Social Ecology and a minor in Digital Media and though I have no clue what those things mean, I am fairly sure they have nothing to do with hair'. And you're absolutely right. I once dyed a boyfriend's hair black and I'd once dyed mine purple but that ends my experience with hair.

But this exile into the world of hair is my own fault.

One week before graduating from college, I hauled Todd to the Paul Mitchell School of Beauty so we could both get our hair done. I was totally broke, working at a food bank and trying to finish out the damn year so we couldn't go somewhere fancy. He was just getting a haircut and I was getting a cut and color.

We sat in the waiting room and saw some really great hair walk out of the store. I was called first and told the two girls who were consulting with me that I wanted "dark blonde". They seemed to understand English and what that hair color might be and walked away to mix color only to come back and each take one side of my hair. It turned out dark BRUNETTE and was patchy since the girls were likely new. I was not excited but it was like $30 for a cut and color and I though 'Oh well, I'll figure it out'.

But poor Todd...oh. It pains me to think of it even now. Todd got the call that Zeus would be cutting his hair. Zeus was a latin man (using the word "man" generously here) with Robert Smith hair that was raven black with hot pink streaks, painted nails and what can only be referred to as "excessive flair". He started Todd off with a 45 minute hot oil scalp massage. Yes, 45 minutes. Then he proceeded to butcher Todd's wonderful hair. And I mean BUTCHER. It took 3 hours and when we finally got to the car, I started crying.

"I'm sorry...it's just...you look like....a lesbian mom!"

Ever since then, I've been Todd's hair dresser. It's not such a bad gig since he usually pays me in craft supplies and I do surprisingly well for having absolutely no experience whatsoever. We also get a good kick when he throws the hair I've cut off the balcony and it looks like a shredded muskrat on our sidewalk. But I'm getting nervous. Nini's wedding is in July and last month he declared he'd be growing his hair out. I generally like his hair short and I know there will be a million photos happening in a very short amount of time. It's become a little mullet-esque. But hey, if it makes him happy and he's not having to party with Zeus, what do I care?