I think I have part girl brains.

Becky’s sister, Kathy, cut my hair a couple days ago when she came through town.  It’s all gone.  Gone.  And very very gray.  And gone.  Real gone.

I personally don’t care all that much what the topiary on top of my dome looks like, but Kathy made me care.  She made feel a bit self-consious by asking me three times if I was sure I didn’t want to color it.  “Yes,” I said every time, “I don’t want to pay to keep that up.”

The only opinion on the whole looks thing that really should matter to me is Becky’s. (Keep this in mind, by the way, when you come to my shows from here on out and entertain the idea of popping off about how too thin or too gray or too tall or too pale or too whatever you think I am.)

So I say to her, “I’m not sure this haircut thing was such a good idea…and Kathy thinks it would look better if I colored it.  Or maybe I should shave…or grow a bigger beard.” And then, after a long pause to prepare for any answer I might receive, I asked, “On a scale of one to I-wanna-rip-your-clothes-off, how do you like it?”

“I like it,” she said.

“You mean you wanna rip my clothes off,” I elaborated.

“Yes,” she said, straight-faced, staring at tax forms and never even looking up. “When I look at your hair. I want. To rip. Your clothes off.  It’s all I can think about.”

Those words, minus the obvious sarcasm, plus a little more inflection and maybe even some eye contact, and I’m good.  Men are simple.  The sages Cheap Trick summed up every man’s desire in one line: “I want you to want me.”