“My wife cuts my hair; she’s my hairdresser.”
Images of Mr. Roth’s luscious grey-black locks falling to the ground and coagulating in a puddle of water and hair product immediately flashed through my mind, and in a bolt of inspiration mixed with obligation, I transcribed his holiness’s speech into my notebook.
The concert promptly began, and I was left to watch an elaborate tap dance routine (“clickty clack clack clack, clack clack clickity, clickity clickity clack”) while this information turned over in my mind. My initial impression, vivid as a painting, gave way to a litany of questions: What lead M.R. to make this comment? Were the professors complementing his hair, and he just felt compelled to give credit where credit was due? Does Professor Weil have any formal training as a hairdresser? And where in their house do they do the cutting? Is this a “set a towel down on the kitchen floor and sit my little boy on a stool” type of affair? Or does he sit in the bathtub? Does he like it? Was this his idea, or did Professor Weil take it upon herself to help him?
After a few more hours carrying this information inside my own head, I felt compelled to share it with my therapist the Wesleying editors.
“Is this fucking real?” one of them said.
“Yes, too real,” I replied.
“U should totally write a post about this. This is wack,” another said.
“KK sounds good fam. [Thumbs up emoji].”
And so here we are. The more you know.
All joking aside, I think this is all really cute. And Mr. Roth’s hair is pretty dope, so presumably the arrangement is working.