Do you have a black box?
In our house, it's a serious matter, this average-sized black box with a little clasp on one end. It sits in our bathroom cupboard and only gets taken down once a month. It is not heavy, but its weight is great. For it comes with obligations.
Remember The Meadow picture I told you about? The popcorn recipe I inherited from my dear in-laws? See here if you need a reminder.
As gracious as the Folks are, these things did not come without strings. Oh no, they did not. Not long after I became engaged to the Real Gil, I received the initiation into Life with the Black Box.
Inside, all cute and packaged freshly, were items I had never, ever used before.
Clippers. Attachments. Hair-cutting scissors.
And after the wedding, as I hung my She-man picture in our first home, as I popped our first bowl of kettle corn, I realized the obligation of the Black Box.
At first, it was simple and sweet. Real Gil would have a day off and I'd spend an hour trimming, combing, fingering, studying his head of forgiving curls. Not that difficult, really, especially when you have an amazing husband like I do. To be honest, the real concessions probably came from Real Gil's side of things, considering I was a young and ambitious bride with absolutely no experience with clippers. Real Gil had to put up with some pretty interesting haircuts. There were times, I'll admit, that I wanted to hand the man fifteen bucks and send him to Supercuts. I'm sure he would have kissed me happily and skipped out the door.
But then, I realized something one day as I was getting my own hair cut. The lovely lady eventually got around to the front of my face and as innocent as can be, had to stick her beautiful buxom self right at my eye level. I couldn't help but stare at her voluptuous chest. It was either that or mess up my bangs and I'm far too vain for that. Now, whenever I think of sending Real Gil to the barber, I remember that sweet hairstylist with her unwitting charm (two in particular) and I'm immediately motivated to get out the Box.
Then, the children started coming. And crawling. And spreading those lovingly shorn locks all over my floor. Now, I cut hair with at least two assistants. Real Gil is an amazing sport when it comes to three girls cutting, picking, pulling, and styling.
Today, however, something brilliantly new happened. If I was a feminist, I would be gleeful.
As the Little Guy climbed up to receive his haircut from Mama, Real Gil took the clippers.
See for yourself.
I'm off the hook, at least when it comes to this head of hair. My new job: handing out the lollipops, and taking pictures.
Then, it got downright silly around here. I think someone else just wanted a lollipop.
(Dear Brother-in-law James Glover, the photography superstar: Can you please teach me how to Photoshop that basket of laundry out of my picture? Oh yes, that's what I get to do after typing this insanity. Maybe that's why I'm still typing...)
So, we gave the Pops a lollipop and told him to sit still.
And with the talk of lollipops floating around this house, our next victim took the bait.
Now if only I can get someone to do my highlights for me...