Marrying George Clooney

okay. two days ago ken said to me “geez amy your hair looks a little, hmmm, what’s the word i’m looking for, yeah got it: fucked up.” first of all that isn’t one word, it’s two. and my hairdresser – a very sweet but unstable guy who cut hair out of his house who also by the way lived with a gazillion (okay, a thousand…) animals, and… and was also searching for acceptance at a local church which refused to accept his homosexuality and therefore he left both our community and my hair high and dry, and on end. i can say with absolute confidence that one should never try to find a new hairdresser during the summer months because a) when it starts growing out you can wake up one morning and honest to god, look like don fucking king.
so, he left me — and i have gone to two different women, and both times i came out wanting to completely shave my head. and so last night, with a bit of wine in me, and a scissor that wasn’t meant to cut anything, particularly hair, i started to chop here and there, and when i woke up this morning ken looked at me and covered his mouth with his hand (something he never ever does) and then said in a hush voice, what happened to your eyebrows?
hmmm. i thought. now that i have a pixie junkie razor cut minus the aubergine tips, he’s noticing my thin and very very light eyebrows.
which made me think: i could put a pair of tits on my forehead and ken would say “hmmm, hey baby, i think you have pink eye.”