The following completely shameful story is true.
Those of you following my Not So Brilliant Ideas series know how many excellently horrible ideas I’ve had throughout the years. Most of these have been based primarily out of farce and not fact, but a grooming tale by Go Jules Go reminded me of an entirely true tale of idiotic woe.
It was several months after our wedding and like most newly weds, I was buzzing with happiness and an overwhelming sense of financial doom. Weddings aren’t cheap and we were both desperately trying to get a jump on our financial futures after falling down the marriage pit. The fall was a long one.
Over ten thousand dollars later we were planning our honeymoon on what seemed to be a Campbell soup and Top Ramen budget. Being the
financially responsible cheap bastard that I am, I was looking into any conceivable way to save money. Cue lady bits trimmer.
This incredible device already did wonders for my wife’s downstairs region and it seemed only natural these benefits would translate just as well to the upstairs region. I was wrong.
A moments hesitation was immediately overpowered by a quick glance at our bank statements and pubic hair trimmers were looking better by the minute. My wife assembled the trimmers and as she approached I could hear its murderous hum whisper in my ear.
The first swipe across the nape of my neck was immediately followed by a sharp howl. It was my wife who was reacting to what had clearly become one of the biggest mistakes we would ever make in our marriage. I found a hand mirror and twisted it around to assess the damage.
A huge strip of hair was missing from the bottom right portion of my rear neck. It was a disaster, but an isolated and potentially controllable one. We switched guards and made a second approach near the top. The guard proved too big. It was unable to keep the hair lengths even around the curves of my scalp and so we switched guards again. Four guards later and this is the byproduct of our at home hair cutting adventures.
My wife was mortified. She felt horrible and shifted between shock and uncontrollable laughter as we immediately raced to our cameras for pictures. The next day I dragged myself over to the nearby Great Clips to see what, if anything could be salvaged.
The hairstylist looked at me and attempted to maintain composure as I relayed all the events leading up to my arrival at her chair. Ultimately, the hair required a zero guard and delicate razor work, but the memory lives on through every photo of our honeymoon where I was balder than even adult Charlie Brown could ever be.
I look like someone who just returned from a long tour in Iraq or blasted through seventeen rounds of extremely intensive chemotherapy. You choose.
Disclaimer: Enjoy these horrible pictures of me while they last, because I will be smiley censoring all subsequent posts.
Let me know if you have any horrible haircutting stories or even a not so brilliant idea of your own you would like to share. Leave a comment below!