The Haircut

Beware of a wife carrying scissors.

Marty came to her husband carrying scissors. On the rare occasions that she went to a salon, the technicians there were always flummoxed by her naturally curly hair. The Texas humidity, however, was doing a number on her hair and she needed a trim.

Badly.

“Just need a little off in the back. It’ll save you thirty bucks and only take you a minute.”

“Nope. No. No way. Negative. Not happening. Ney. Nein. Nyet. Just no.”

“Come on, Thad, it’ll save you some money. Since you’re wavering a bit, I’ll give you another chance. Otherwise, I’ll have Layla do it.”

Layla was their 8-year-old daughter.

Thad swiveled around in his chair. “Still no. Layla’ll do a better job than me. Go ahead. I’m just not gonna do it.”

And that was that.

Thad hadn’t thought about the hair cut until Marty took Layla into the bathroom one evening. He heard Marty say, “I’ve got a project today, Layla.” The two were always involved in some creative scientific or art project so that was not abnormal. Twenty minutes later, Marty presented herself to Thad like a little girl in a flowery dress would present herself to her parents.

“Like it, Thad?”

Layla was standing beside Marty and waiting for Thad’s approval. Her hair was cropped short, shorter than he’d ever seen it in the 20 years they had been married. Not a terrible cut, just a short one.

“You did that, Layla?”

“Mm hmm. Like it?” the eight-year-old asked.

“It’s growing on me the longer I look at it. It’s a fine job, Layla. It’ll grow back.”