The Boss is kinda funny ‘bout hair. Don’t matter what a woman’s got goin’ on, if her hair ain’t right, the Boss don’t give it a second look. I think he’s a bit harsh seein’ what I look like after I roll in a good, aged pile of dead possum or after a foot-deep dig in his garden, not the clean sandy stuff, neither, but the nasty composted shit under one of his prized plants. I’m talkin’ ‘bout seriously BAD hair. Smells real bad, too. No woman gets over on me. Not one of ‘em.
But I can see his point. Hair says a lot about a woman. Sassy, coy or ordinary. Real quick it says it, too. Clothes make a statement, but if the outfit ain’t backed up by a good doo, the girl ain’t got it goin’ on through and through. Hair proves she knows her shit.
Some times the Boss lets my hair grow down over my eyes. He thinks I can’t see nothin’ like that. I see fine. Champagne-colored furry glasses, just enough tint to keep it real.
Got me thinkin’, though. Short hair on woman can be shaped in all sorts of ways that long hair can’t.
Some times the Boss lets my hair grow down over my eyes. He thinks I can’t see nothin’ like that. I see fine. Champagne-colored furry glasses, just enough tint to keep it real.
Got me thinkin’, though. Short hair on woman can be shaped in all sorts of ways that long hair can’t.
I see a lot of women wearing long stringy mops parted high above their noses like curtains of some Broadway show. Is Johnny Depp gonna jump out behind those long strands or what?
The Boss really hates bad hair. When he goes to get me groomed the other day, I can hear the woman moan through the glass door even before we’re inside. “Short on the upper body, leave the wisps behind the legs so they wave in the wind when he runs. Schnauzer cut on the face. Good luck on the beard. He doesn’t like the beard touched… No, you won’t distract him, either. He doesn’t bite, don’t worry.”
The Boss really hates bad hair. When he goes to get me groomed the other day, I can hear the woman moan through the glass door even before we’re inside. “Short on the upper body, leave the wisps behind the legs so they wave in the wind when he runs. Schnauzer cut on the face. Good luck on the beard. He doesn’t like the beard touched… No, you won’t distract him, either. He doesn’t bite, don’t worry.”
After he picks me up, the Boss took me down to his watering hole to splash down a few. In walks one of his girly-friends from the past with her posse of post-thirty babes all decked out. She gives him the look, you know the one: “I’m hot shit and you ain’t. You, with that pansy-assed dog.”
Now let me say a thing or two about the Boss. You can insult him all day long but insult his buds, his woman or his furry friend, and you’ve just stepped in a big pile, the kind that squeezes up over the top of your shoe. I was worried.
He goes off, fully wound up, ready for a real throwdown. I lay back my ears, so they’re outta the way when the fire comes. Only he doesn’t drop an H-bomb this time. He stands and walks right up to her pretty little face. I batten down my ears for the worst. I know my collar’s got the home number. Surely his woman will come down to the county lock-up and spring me…if not him.
He smiles. Then he lays into her. Fit, proportion, color, quality of fabrics and construction, shoes, hose, right on down to the twenty-two cheap rings on her fingers. You name it, he was on it. If you asked me, I don’t think this one look was worth a thousand words.
Then he’s on the hair. He waves his hands all about, lifting and pulling it away from her face and off that awkward shoulder length, then turns to her girlfriends: “What’d you think?” They all nod. I send out a little yip. Well done. She hasn’t slapped him… yet.
He whispers something in her ear, she squeezes his elbow. I know the Boss. When he’s on his game, no one can give a thorn with kiss quite like him.
