A few months ago, DW decided to go to a hair salon to add blonde highlights and get her hair styled. Nothing drastic: she just wanted her hair to look more the way it used to.
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| How I always imagine DW. |
Over the decades since Korea, DW's hair has gradually darkened to a deep blonde to light brown, but overall it was still blonde. In the past few years, she's found a few grey strands, but because her hair is naturally light, I barely noticed the grey.
DW wanted her hair to look more blonde, and so she made an appointment at the stylist's.
When she returned home, she approached me. "What do you think?"
"It's nice," I said. "Your stylist did a good job."
"And?" she asked.
"And what? It suits you."
"What about the highlights?"
"Oh, you had highlights?" I looked more closely but couldn't notice anything.
"No grey," she said. "You really don't see the highlights?"
I guess it came down to the fact that I have always imagined her as a blonde and haven't really noticed the change over time. When she came back with the added colour, it was the colour that I imagined that she always had.
She was happy that I always imagine her as her youthful self.
The same thing happened, yesterday, but the other way around.
I've had my beard for about two months. And throughout its existence, I've often wondered how long I would keep it. Usually, after a month of growing out my face, I inevitably try to trim it, and find that I have made it uneven. And in trying to even it up, I make it more uneven until I finally get frustrated and just cut the whole thing off.
That didn't happen, this time.
We were sitting in our family room, having a very lazy Sunday. DW had started thinking about our next big vacation, for next year, and we started watching a bunch of travel videos on YouTube. While I watched TV, I was constantly running my fingers through the hairs on my chin, which were quite long.
Usually, when the hair on my head gets as long as my chin whiskers, I start thinking about a haircut.
I noticed that my whiskers were quite rough and were straggly in places. I wondered if I should risk trimming it, knowing my track record.
I went upstairs to our ensuite bathroom and closed the door. For the longest time, I looked at the face staring back at me, and I thought, do I want this beard? How long am I going to keep it?
"No," I said aloud. "It comes of right now."
I never made a conscious decision to grow the beard. I just stopped shaving for a few days and when an outline of a beard turned into something more significant, I just let to grow. There was no plan at all.
I grabbed my electric razor, extended the trimmer, and removed the little triangle that had formed under my lower lip. Next, came the moustache. I then went for the right side of my jawline, working down to my chin before switching to the other side and repeating the process.
The chin went last.
It felt more like I was peeling off a layer of fur than cutting off the beard, as severed hairs just clung to the whiskers below. When the long hairs sat in a ball in my sink, I scooped them with both hands and deposited them in the waste basket.
Should I have put them in the compost?
I then gave my face a proper shave, eliminating stubble and any stubborn whiskers. The whole process took about 10 to 15 minutes.
When I was finished, I rejoined DW in our family room.
"What were you up to?" she asked, nonchalantly, looking right at me. I said nothing but smiled and looked her right in the eyes.
"What were you up to?" This time, the tone was accusatory, as though I had snuck upstairs to eat a box of cookies without sharing.
Again. I remained silent, just looking straight back at her.
"You've been up to something," she said, and then her eyes widened, realizing I wasn't the same person who had gone upstairs a few minutes earlier. "I have my husband back!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair and coming to me, covering my lips and cheeks in kisses.
DW hated my beard. She didn't like how it looked, didn't like the feel of it against her own skin. In the past few months, kisses were rare and reluctant, followed by an "Eww," and a grimace.
"It took you long enough to notice," I said. It had, indeed, taken almost 15 to 20 seconds.
"I'm just used to this face and I guess it's what I always imagine you to look like."
It took Kid 1 about five minutes or so to notice, and only after a bit of prodding from her mom. And last night, when DW and I visited my parents—who were among the few who praised my beard—they didn't notice for the three hours we spent with them. It was only when DW mentioned it that they noticed.
We tend to look at people but don't always see them. We see them the way we imagine them. Any variance of that person is forgotten, as though it never existed in the first place.
Looking into my face, before bed. I saw the old me. And I thought only one thing.
I really need a haircut.
Happy Monday!
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