In Which I Get a Mullet

The other day I got my hair cut, and now I look like Joe Dirt. I was aiming for a super-hip shag cut, but I also don’t like to pay very much for my haircuts, and well, well, well. If it isn’t the consequence of my own miserliness.

Looking in the mirror, I also realized that if I didn’t get after it, I would also soon have that little fuzz on my upper lip. I told my parents (who are staying with me while my dad recuperates from his heart surgery) that I was headed out the door to run an errand.

“Oh,” my mom said, interested in everything I do as she always is. “Where are you going?”

Never minding that I am not used to explaining myself, I said, “I am going to get my mustache waxed.”

“You’re doing what?” my dad said, looking up from his crossword.

“Getting my mustache waxed.”

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked.

“Because I’m starting to look like Tom Selleck,” I said.

“Oh, he’s very good-looking,” Mom chimed in.

“Yes, but I don’t want to look like Magnum P.I. with a mullet.”

“No, you don’t,” they agreed.

Thanks, guys.