Here's one more story about my last great flame from before I met my wife. I was not initially attracted to her when she nervously thrust her phone number at me at work except, perhaps, that her bangs were violently hacked up to her hairline while the rest of her curly ash blonde hair hung down her back. I ended up calling her and we ended up together.
With her, my remarks about haircuts were more undisguised than I had ever dared with a girlfriend, and more frequent since she chopped at her crazy bangs in the bathroom often. Once, when we were showering together, she almost got it and freaked out. "You want me to be bald, don't you!?" It seemed like an accusation, so I hemmed and hawed and mitigated rather than confessing. I should have confessed, but it blew over, and she grew her bangs out and we moved in together.
Months later at a restaurant we saw a girl with a buzzcut and she remarked that she thought it was pretty and maybe she should cut her hair like that. My lame response: "I would stand by that 100%." Not "Oh, please, yes. Forget breakfast, let's go buzz your hair off right now, you'll be so beautiful," but "blah, blah 100%."
A few days before my birthday she was driving us home in her car and asked me if there was anything special I wanted for my birthday. We were closing quickly on the barbershop where she knew a couple of my female friends got haircuts. I had nothing to say and we drove on by. I wonder to this day if it were, perhaps, an invitation to pull over.
A month later, when I got home from school, I noticed a wad of hair in the bathroom trashcan. I kept my cool and went about my business studying (i.e. playing solitaire and watching "The Fugitive.") She eventually came home in a flurry, seeming nervous, with her hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. She often wore a ponytail because I told her long hair was disgusting. I hate ponytails more, actually, but an argument's an argument.
Anyway, she got right in my face and said that we should "just look at each other for a minute." And we did. I could tell her hair was shorter but didn't let on. When she was satisfied, she shut herself in the bathroom and told me to stay away.
After a half an hour, I went to check on her, but she told me to go away. I tried to peek through the keyhole (it was an old house) but she stuffed it full of toilet paper.
ly called that she was ready, but ran away from me through the house when I came. When I finally caught her I saw that she had cut her hair short. The sides still covered most of her ears, but the back was much shorter. She had hacked her hair off with our rusty kitchen scissors, and giggled and grinned and asked me if I liked it. I admitted as I did very much, but she said she was thinking she might like it shorter.
I stood behind her at the bathroom mirror while she made various snips at her hair. She put the scissors abover her ear and asked me if she should. I said yes and she cut her hair above her ear. She squealed and laughed and cut the other side to match.
She basically had a little boy haircut and it looked great, but she started talking about how she used to cut her bangs off short and how they were down to her eyebrows. She opened the scissors around her bangs at the hairline and asked me if she should. I hesitated, but said yes, so she crunched the scissors closed and cut them off across her forehead.
She could tell instantly that she looked worse and announced that the haircut was over. She stayed angry the rest of the night, but I remember how wonderful it was to look at her with her hair all cut off.
She would have none of my advances when we went to bed. About four in the morning I woke up to noise from the bathroom. She was standing there, naked, chopping her hair down to the scalp, laughing and sobbing, not even caring when I padded up to watch. She left nothing but a messy stubble with lines of white where the blades closed shortest.
After that she would often talk loudly in public about how her hair was cut very short and she hoped it was short enough for me. At home, she would sometimes bring me a comb and ask me to comb her hair, batting her eyes.
She broke up with me and moved out a couple months later.
She told me I should ask her friend out, but that seemed weird to me. Later, and over the years while I've been married, I've admired how her friend took to wearing a tight, white-scalped flattop. I'm bad at hints, I think.
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