Not mine. I still have them although they are definitively in the column FRIZZ instead of the column LUCIOUS CURLS. Someday when I'm rich and famous and my bed is made of $100 bills, I'll buy every de-frizzing product on the market and see which is the best for me. For now, I look like Monica on that Friends episode. The frizzy episode. You know the one.
Anywho. This isn't about me. It's about HIM.
In case you're confused, by HIM, I don't mean God.
I mean my husband. His name is John. Six foot three. Size 13 feet. Dark, curly hair.
Let's revise that. Dark hair. No longer curly.
This is due to the actions of a certain person with a razor (mentioned earlier on this blog as someone comparable to a Turkish market vendor who could likely sell you-know-what to you-know-who) who somehow convinced John that he should shave his curls in response to another certain person's hilarious (really, they were) comments about wildlife taking up residence in John's hair due to the fact that John hasn't seen a barber in oh, eons. And then, promptly after hilarious (really, I am hilarious) person made said comments, John got a weird look on his face and pulled out of his hair, no joke, a FLYING ANT that had likely been there most of the day or at least for several hours or minutes.
And now John continues to preface explanations for his lack of hair with "Well, after being the target of abuse for so long, I really had no choice....." Blah, blah, blah.
And so without further ado, please meet the newly shorn John:
If you have any nasty pots sitting around, I've now got a spare Brillo pad in the house.
Love you, man!
UPDATE: John received a question or two about his magnificent melon from the front. Brace yourselves: