Samson and Delilah

This week has been replete with revelations. Revelations about trust, myself, my marriage, my husband; and most of all, things that should never be combined. Like windex and bleach, white zinfandel and rib eye.

For example, dyeing my hair usually proceeds without a problem. However, combine the process with a glass or two of Cabernet, and voilá! My bathroom is now splattered with a deep auburn red pattern….somehow the open bottle of dye slipped from my hand...spun through the air...and splashed in the toilet. Now... maybe the two (three) glasses of wine had nothing to do with my new wall decor, but I sincerely doubt it...now it looks like a murder scene.

I've also realized that sushi and I are another bad mix….and that I should never... ever... trust anything Brad says again regarding dead fish. After years insisting that I'd love sushi, I finally broke down. I figured that Brad wouldn't rave about something that tasted like ass.

So, we went out. And I watched him happily order all of his favorite delicacies. Our sushi chef looked like Mr. Miyagi, and he proudly placed a slab of shiny pink flesh before us. Brad popped it in his mouth with a look of reverence and ecstasy. Mr. Miyagi watched from the corner of his eye, waiting for me to also shout in delight, so, not wanting to disappoint Brad or Mr. Miyagi, I gently grasped the slick pinkness, and placed it in my mouth.

The look on my face must have worried everyone. Mr. Miyagi quickly looked away in disdain, and Brad started chanting, "just swallow…it's okay, just swallow…. don't think about it… just swallow…. god, don't gag!"

Freudian themes (and mixed metaphors) aside…I did as he insisted. Then gulped down my entire beer. Relieved, Brad assured and insisted that the assortment of sashimi to come would be much better. And promptly, slab after slab of fish was placed before us. Brad was in heaven. Now, maybe Brad is immune to the taste of fish…has a more sophisticated palate…a genetic defect…or maybe he is just a liar. But with every bite, I fought the urge to vomit all over Mr. Miyagi's beautiful bamboo sushi bar. And all the while, Brad softly chanted in my ear…just swallow…you'll be okay….breathe…don't throw up…whatever you do…don't gag!

The taste of fish lingered on my lips for only a little while, but my distrust of Brad lasted much longer.

Another revelation regarding trust and toxic combinations includes: Me…some Zinfandel...hair clippers…and Brad's head. This is, undoubtedly, a dangerous and possibly fatal combination.

For months Brad has been toying with the idea of shaving his head. So, I surprised him with a new set of electric clippers….confident that he would then shave his own head. Instead, he looked at me expectantly and said, "now you can trim my hair."

Instantaneously my brain started screaming: "Holy shit……this man really trusts me!!…this is gonna be hilarious! Is he crazy?? He's just asking for it...how can he trust me...with CLIPPERS?!...He should KNOW better!!! I better not fuck this up...oh GOD this is gonna be freaking hilarious!!!"

For the record (and to cover my ass in the case of a mishap) I admonished Brad with a detailed set of warnings: "I don't know how to trim hair. I can shave it all off…but trimming is more precise. I might mess it up, and then you'll hate me forever, so you can't get mad if I mess it up."

"Just trim it! God, you went to law school, It can't be that hard!" Well, with that attitude, I quickly downed a glass of wine and figured…what's the worst that can happen? This isn't like dyeing hair…at least I won't end up with a murder scene again…unless these clippers can cut through flesh…oh crap…can theses things cut through flesh??…is this dangerous? Oh, holycrap…there's probably a reason you need a freaking license to cut hair!!

So, after another glass of wine...to calm my nerves…I went at it. The first go-over went pretty well; Brad was somewhat pleased. There were a few uneven patches, so I told him I'd even it out.

What happened next is a bit hazy. I remember the trusting look in Brad's eye, the heavy clippers in my hand…then..It was like I was floating above my body, all-powerful, and in slow motion. I watched as the clippers glided smoothly in a sea of hair, softly buzzing by…leaving a wake of hair that slowly trickled down Brad's forehead.

I looked down and gasped. I started chanting, "It's okay…it's okay it's okay it's okay" as laughter seeped out. My hand was covered in a thick blanket of his hair. I looked at the clippers...then up to his half-shorn head…then into his eyes, wide with disbelief.

I'll say this for Brad...he has an abundance of self-control. He was shaking with all that self-control…self-control was radiating from every ounce of his being…from the tips of his self-controlled toes to the top of his self-controlled-half-shorn head. Either that…or it was silent rage. Either way, it was fascinating to behold.

Now, as a non-christian, I don't believe in the bible, or a christian hell, god, or devil. But if there is such a thing, I'd be able to honestly tell god that the devil made me do it, and that yes, I'd be happy to meet up with all my friends in hell come the judgment; and that I now feel a special affinity towards Samson and Delilah. Especially Delilah.

So this week Brad learned something important too: never trust me with a pair of clippers. And I have to say, I'm not sorry. Not a bit. He looks hot with his new haircut.