Marriage is all about accepting each other at our worst, right? I keep reminding myself that this is true– like when I am picking up dirty socks for the hundredth time or when Mark still kisses me after I haven’t showered in days. However, last night was a whole new experience, highlighting this truth once again.

Mark needs a haircut, like bad. You know how there are some men that can pull off the Fabio look when their hair gets long, and then there are some that just look…like a wolf-man? Mark securely falls into that second category—wolf-man. It’s been a running joke throughout our marriage. He always waits until he’s two months past wolf-man to get a haircut. It is no different this time, and it might be even worse– perhaps three months past wolf-man?

And guys, I don’t get it. Seriously, every time he gets a haircut, it’s like we’re dating all over again. I’m swept off my feet, reminded of how very handsome my swarthy-Mediterranean husband is (that’s his nickname of choice). Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Mark likes to become crazy wolf-man so that when he gets a haircut, like normal people, I fall deeply and madly in love with him all over again. That sounds shallow. I like him a lot even when he is wolf-man. It’s just… I love a clean haircut.

Well, last night he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror shaving. I couldn’t stop staring at his ridiculous hair. So I grabbed a comb and my girls’ elastics and started combing his hair into small sections. I put pony tails every so often, and it was hilarious. We were both laughing so hard at how ridiculous it looked! Mark had to set down the razor and wipe at his tear-filled eyes. Secretly, it was my ploy to induce him to get a haircut. But we were laughing so hard that I forgot and got carried away. At one point, I put an elastic in my mouth as a holding spot while I combed a small section.

Then, Mark made me laugh, and yes…I swallowed that elastic. It was past the point of no return, so to speak, but it wouldn’t go down my throat (I have an itty bitty throat). Suddenly, mid laugh, I fell to the floor trying to huck the stupid elastic up. Mark stepped back, crazy ponytails and all, a blank look on his face.

I put my hand up, halting any question certain to come. This elastic was not going down, and I knew it had to come up. But how do you gurgle something that is past that point? I could hardly breathe. And that stupid elastic was threatening to go in my airway. So, I did what any natural person would do. And it came up.

So did half a frozen Costco pizza from dinner, along with various other food items that will remain nameless. I don’t want to get graphic here.

There was stifling silence for at least a minute. I was busy recovering from fight-or-flight. And Mark (still sporting the crazy hair) was standing with his jaw to the floor, his brows furrowed. At long last, he crouched down, lifting his arms in the air.

“What the hell just happened?”

The combination of his crazy hair and confused expression was just too much. We both laughed until our sides hurt, mine infinitely more from my recent upchuck.

The point of this story is: Marriage really is all about loving each other through the worst of times. HUSBANDS, cut your dang hair. WIVES, never put elastics in your mouth.

And most importantly, laughter really is the best medicine.

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