The Writer's Block

Some people just have to be told things extremely bluntly. Cause and effect have to be spelled out, but then sometimes they don’t get it anyway. Sometimes they just have to feel the cast iron pan as it crushes the left side of their skulls.

I recently came home from a long-overdue visit to the hairdresser, jazzed about how sassy and sexy I looked. I am a natural dirty-blonde, more dirt than blonde, and it took three hours to get the color and cut just right. God bless my neighbor/hairdresser who treats me like a queen every time I sit down in her salon chair. I decided to go for short and as blonde as she could get me without bleaching.

I walked in my house feeling a bit like a marvelous cross between Marilyn Monroe and Sharon Osbourne. My louse, I mean s-p-o-u-s-e of 16 years rushed to the door to meet me. I opened my eyes wide, stuck out my tongue like I was the newest member of Kiss and flipped my hands up the back of my head, letting out a little giggle of glee (it might help to know I’m going through sort of a mid-life crisis these days.)

The next thing I heard was his steep gasp followed by, “How could you cut your hair like that? Do you know how ugly that looks? You look like an old woman with your hair like that!”

I informed him quite bluntly that I had my hair cut and colored to please myself, not him, and that he was cutting off his nose to spite his face by being so rude to me.

His ranting went on until he could stand it no more and he went for a walk. By evening time, I suppose his blood-pressure had settled to a simmer again (or perhaps he had finally remembered that I had lately been talking about leaving him for good this time) and I came in from my blogging, exhausted and ready for bed. He met me in the bedroom and when he slid off his jeans I could see that he had forgotten what he had said earlier and was ready for some action. He made his way over to my side of the bed and kissed my neck, his member pressing into my thigh. He tried to push me back on the bed.

That’s when I let him have the old frying pan on the head: I said, “Oh, you mean you actually want to fuck an ugly, old lady?!”

I could almost hear him bleat.