You know when you get married? And you take vows? And you’re all, like, “I vow to never, ever, ever look a fool!” or “I vow to always look my stylish best!” or at the very least, “I vow to never embarrass you in public!”? Remember?
Well, John forgot. He forgot so hard that the other night, he seriously and quite casually mentioned, with a touch of excitement that he will one day sport a combover. To which I replied, in record time, “I want a divorce.”
And now, in the interest of equal time, I will let John have the floor. Take it away, hubby!
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Guys. Fellas. Dudes.
We know what ladies want, right? Eh?
Oh, they might say they don’t like them. They might constantly make fun of them. They might visibly shudder at the sight of one. They might even go so far as to verbally utter, in all seriousness, possibly under oath, with or without a bailiff present “I sincerely hate combovers and I will initiate divorce proceedings if you if start doing it.”
But . . . c’mon, we know better right?
Here’s the thing: combovers have a bad rap. Why? Because you only ever notice the bad ones, the failures. And they are failures because they are noticeable. The essence of a successful combover is stealth. You can never tell a guy with a good combover because you can’t see it. He looks like he has a good head of hair. And because stealth and secrecy are essential to the combover, no one with a good combover will ever willingly reveal that his apparent copious hair is actually an intricate ruse.
So judging combovers in general solely by its worst possible examples–fifteen 12-inch strands stretched from somewhere around the occipital bone to the eyebrows–is like judging the entire medium of film solely by Michael Bay movies, or plastic surgery solely by . . . people with bad, obvious plastic surgery.
So, when the time comes, guys, you know what to do. Agree with your lady that combovers are tacky, then mentally high-five yourself for your successful, invisible combover.
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And now for a bit of realism from your trusty friend, Sarah.
Ahem. First of all: bros? Really?
Second of all, I know what the ladies like because I am, in fact, a lady. A lady that married a man with a full head of hair and at the time, some sense in the head that is under the hair. Seriously, John is known for his hair! He’s the Lady Ga Ga of hair! Out of all the men in his family (four, total) he is the most gifted in the hair category, although third in Math. He’s got the second largest head, though which brings us to issue #3.
Honey. I love you. But your head is . . . well, huge. It’s masked by your beautiful, luxurious dark head of hair. And your glasses tend to shift focus away from the girth, but it’s pretty big. Sort of like my nose. We get what we get, right? And I love your big head! I love it so much! And there’s a really big brain in your really big head! Such a big brain that I’m a little stunned that you would actually consider a combover!
See, here’s the thing. You say that you can’t judge a good combover because you can’t see it, but that’s just plain silly! The thing about eyes, see, is that they can like, see stuff. Like, clearly. And unless you plug that shit, we are going to see your stealthy combover. Because we, as women, notice everything. Let me say that again. We. Notice. Everything. Not only do we notice everything, but we can actually predict the future, too.
Add to that the fact that our record for being right about pretty much everything is, well, to account for really dumb women, about 98% and you’ve got yourself a really unstealthy combover.
This is on the Things My Husband Should Never Do list! Right between “must never become suddenly religious” and “will never use the word ‘bro’”! It clearly states, “my husband will never, ever, ever, ever have a combover. Like, never, ever, ever.” So, this leaves us one option, which is clearly, divorce. Because, bro? I didn’t marry my high school social studies teacher. Mr. Holland you are not. Which is a good thing, because he was a total tool.