Suburban Goddess

Shortly after I got home on Friday, my husband disappeared into the bathroom. Alex likes to follow him, so when she tried to open the door handle and found it would not budge, she started to cry. After a moment, I got up to open the door for her, figuring it was just stuck, but was surprised to find it locked. I fiddled with the doorknob, curious. We never lock doors in our house. There are no secrets. Alex & I banged on the simultaneously, but were answered with silence. A few minutes later, my curiosity was answered when he opened the door.

“I need your help,” he mumbled, zipping into the bathroom. I followed slowly, not quite sure my eyes were seeing right. As I rounded the corner, it was confirmed. My husband stood proudly in front of the mirror with a mohawk.

“What did you do?” I asked, incredulous.

“Do you like it? I always wanted a mohawk.”

“But you’re 34!”

“So?”

Alex pointed at her father with a giggle. “Da-DEE!”

“I need you to straighten it out for me,” he said, pointing to the back of his head. I was actually quite impressed with his clipper skills; there was only a small section where his hand had wavered. Without another word, I took the clippers and shaved off the last of the offending hair, leaving my middle-aged husband with a perfect mohawk.

We were officially redneck before; now we are card-carrying, licensed, registered experts.

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