The Clothes Make the Girl by Brittany Gibbons

Author:Brittany Gibbons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

On any normal day, I estimate Andy to give less than two shits about my hair, and I am completely okay with that. I can come home from the salon and he may or may not notice, and that’s fine. The only reason I know when he trims his beard is because he leaves all the hair in the sink like a molting bird.

I think we are both really good about knowing what the other likes, and live by a general set of rules we laid out on our wedding night. Vows, if you will. Honestly, we were too drunk and exhausted to consummate our new marriage, so we just collapsed on our bed fully dressed and wrote out silly promises to each other until we had to leave for the airport and catch the flight to our honeymoon.

“Promise me we’ll always want to have sex with one another,” he wrote.

“Promise me you’ll always think I’m the funniest girl you know.”

“Promise me you’ll never make me sell my car for a minivan.”

We went back and forth laughing, completely unaware that you can’t accurately make these sorts of predictions when you are twenty-three years old with no children or debt.

“Promise me you’ll never ask me if I really need to order two eggrolls,” I wrote.

“Promise me you’ll never get a short mom haircut,” he scribbled in all caps.

“Promise me you’ll pretend you don’t notice when I poop.”

“Promise me you won’t use my razor to shave your pubic hair.”

Let me tell you . . . that last one? There’s probably quite a market for guys in prison who’d be into that sort of thing, and I’d look into it more if you were allowed to mail razors jammed with pubes to inmates. Just sayin’.

To date, we’ve kept the majority of these promises to each other. Even with three kids, neither of us drives a van and Andy still pretends the bathroom doesn’t smell like a lit match when I walk out. However, the razor thing was a deal breaker. Andy’s razor is so much sharper than mine, and if it’s a choice between ending up with a vagina that looks like Michael Chiklis or Deadpool, I’m choosing Chiklis.

Up until this point, my hair has largely been a nonissue in our relationship. I had been sticking to dark chestnut shades, attempting to look exotic next to Andy’s dark skin and black hair, a task I had taken over doing at home with boxed color. This would be mistake number one. I am not made to have dark brown hair. My skin is too fair and the inky hues washed me out and made me look green. This was further confirmed when I caught Andy Photoshopping a tan onto my skin in one of our wedding pictures. This is a man who had previously had a soul patch and wore gold chains with the Nike symbol hanging from them. If he was concerned about my grooming choices, something had to be horribly amiss.

The second broken promise happened shortly after the birth of our daughter.

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