Last week found me traveling out of the Valley on my winter sojourn to warmer climes in search of more fishing adventures. All was fine until I started down the east side of La Veta Pass where all of a sudden I lost the trailer brakes.
I pushed down hard on the brake pedal but if felt like a spoiled peach. Things soon got hot and the truck started shaking and bumping and grinding all over the highway like I did the last time I walked across the beach barefoot.
Only the truck wasn’t quite as loud as I was. My hair was standing on end and turned two shades whiter while Cooper slept on. That just shows you that dogs trust God more than we do -- or something like that.
A quick consult with the man upstairs was in order and He must of not been too busy this day as I was able to bring the entire rig to a halt at the bottom without incident.
While I tried to tame my scared stiff hair I was reminded of another type of hair raising situation. Those of you with women in the house will be able to relate the following story.
When my children were growing up, it always fell to me to unclog drains. When they were younger, the drains yielded tiny toy soldiers or hair barrette. As they grew older, it became masses of golden locks of adornment.
It got so bad that I became a major shareholder in the Liquid Plumber Company.
After becoming single, my life became a hair-free nirvana. Then, I met Trixie.
Now this woman isn’t just blessed with beautiful locks of chocolate, glossy glory, she has about enough hair on that head of hers for 10 normal women. The last time she washed it we had to call out the volunteer fire department for a rinse just to get the soap out. It’s that thick.
I learned quickly, it’s one thing to have a blonde in the house where the lost hair strand sneaks up on you but quite another to have to navigate the darker locks found on my own vixen lady.
Suddenly it’s everywhere. I had heard about women looking for stray strands around the house to find out if their husbands are cheating and God help the man who decided to have an affair with a brunette like Trixie.
It’s on my toothbrush, in the sink and in the tub. It’s hard to wash even with suds. It’s in the shower and in the bed. It’s underfoot and overhead. Sweepers bend and worship, surrendering to her dark strands.
People come to marvel, even from some other lands. Her hair makes decor seem foolish, covering the bare carpet. It falls out more each day it seems, no matter how much I harp on it. It’s in the milk, it’s in the clothes it’s in the long, long garden hose.
It’s in the freezer and in my mouth; it blows to Kansas with winds from the South.
It’s hard to take, I do admit, although I love her quite a bit. So close my mouth and close my eyes and when I gag hope not to die. She is a beauty, none can compare and whom God blessed with lots of hair.
I had taken great care in selecting a dog like Cooper as he never sheds a hair. There is nothing I hate worse than laying on the floor and finding a hair in my mouth. An ordinarily old worn-out Dutch can launch off the floor in an instant going from flat on my back to standing in about half a second under those circumstances.
Now that I have thoroughly disgusted and sickened most of you with this story, Trixie just put a big bowl of angel hair pasta on my plate and wonders why I just turned green.
Remember that no matter where you find yourself there you are and “it’s hair today and gone tomorrow” when you find yourself in a divorce.