Power is something that all men desire, regardless of whether or not they admit to it. Power comes in many forms, from wealth and political control to actual physical prowess. Like anything, power is best consumed in moderation and the quick ascension of an individual from powerless to powerful can sometimes lead to corruption. The former happened to me this past week after I used my wife’s hair conditioner.
The whole ordeal started out innocently enough, with me preparing to accompany my wife to a wine dinner and wanting to put my best foot forward. I spent quite a bit of time preparing my outfit that day, a smart yet casual pairing of dark jeans with a pin stripe blazer that was suggested by my wife via email. Because she’d done most the planning for my attire, I thought I’d surprise her by throwing a couple extra steps into the mix, some beautification procedures that are not usual components of my hygiene repertoire.
My first was to shave my mangy “beard” into a tasteful mustache/goatee combo. I ended up looking like Renaissance era renderings of Satan, so I opted to go clean shaven. Still, I didn’t feel like this was enough. I wanted my wife to be thrilled and I was losing time. After pondering my predicament during an extra long shower, I found the answer in the form of hair conditioner.
This would not be the first time I used hair conditioner, though I never really felt it made much of a difference during my previous uses, thus never really ever becoming a factor for me. I’m not sure whether it was the length of my hair, a new ingredient in the German version or the intense pressure I felt to look super sleek but for some reason I emerged from the shower with a silky smooth and unusually shiny mane. My usual apathy for hair styling quickly disintegrated as I finally began to understand why people spend so much time with their hair.
It was a wonderful feeling to toss my head to the side and feel the soft locks bound across my forehead. The comb, which usually got locked up somewhere in the tangled mess of a jungle that was my head, glided effortlessly. I stared at myself in the mirror for quite some time, narcissism flooding into my brain to degrees I wasn’t quite prepared for. I quickly got dressed and waited for my wife to come home, anxiously awaiting her surprise and delight at my amplified look.
She got caught late at work and so we had to rush out the door which meant she didn’t have much time to appreciate my hard work. I did my best to twirl my hair and draw her attention towards the top of my head, but to no avail. At first I was disappointed but this eventually lead to confusion and ultimately anger. Did she not realize what she was sitting next to? She was literally a foot away from locks the world had never seen before yet she was preoccupied with things like work and everyday responsibilities.
As tends to happen at wine dinners, people drink and sometimes they get drunk. I happened to be one of the drunk ones and somewhat forgot about my gorgeous hair and the frustration caused by my wife not noticing. Eventually I had to visit the little boy’s room and quietly excused myself from the group.
Upon entering the restroom, I came into view of the mirrors, an elegant and perfectly lit duo that brought my attention right back to my hair. While it looked good at home, it was magnificent in this light and my previous focus came back to the surface. I tossed my head back, gave myself a wink in the mirror and made my way back to the table with the goal of directing my wife’s eyes to the canvas that was the top of my head.
I marched to our table defiantly and whispered at an inappropriate level, “My Hair looks amazing.”
I caught my wife in mid drink and she almost spit her wine all over her neighbor, which probably wouldn’t have been as big of a deal if the wine connoisseur of the evening wasn’t taking us through all the hullabaloo that went into the Riesling we were consuming. She composed herself, took a look at my hair and did agree that it looked much shiner than usual.
I developed a swagger of sorts for the rest of the evening, resulting in me acting like a big man. I bought people drinks, explained how to properly cut cigars and talked shop about things I had no business talking shop about. I was out of control and needed to be taken down a notch. Fortunately for the world, a heroic German prevented the rise of my hair fueled tyranny in the most indirect way possible.
Being that I was in a bold mood, we left the wine dinner and made our way over to a club. I expected to throw my weight around a bit considering my new found confidence, but before I could demand free entrance and a one-way ticket to the VIP area, the aforementioned hero stepped out from the darkness and dropped me down a few pegs before I had a chance to protect myself. He was a tall man, far better dressed than myself and supporting a head of hair that I couldn’t possibly compete with. The illusion of my grandeur started to unravel and I realized that while my hair looked better than it usually did, it didn’t hold a candle to competing hair styles.
It was hard to swallow for a moment, but I quickly came to my senses and realized how foolish I’d been. I thanked the man, exclaiming in my least drunk but still obnoxiously loud voice that I conceded to him. He seemed confused but thanked me and carried on with his night as I regained my foothold on reality and settled into a lifestyle I’d grown accustomed to; a lifestyle of pretty ok hair.