My husband has this "thing"

My husband has this "thing" about my hair. Let me start at the
beginning. We met (me: 18, tan, long-down-my back hair, innocent, unassuming
college freshman; him: 23, transfer student, Marine, buff, worldly wise and
looking for a girl) at Mizzou in the late summer of 1988. I had gone off to
college from a small town (all though truly a city girl at heart). I knew there
to be "older, mature" good-looking guys on a college campus. In short, it was to
be a smorgasboard of males. So, when I met R in Spanish 1 the first day of
class, I may have made mental note of him, but I wasn't committing to anything!
He was a little strange, you know, older. I chose to sit next to a young politic
lover who was sold on Dukakis. I ,of course, was excited to be participating in
my country's democratic process. I was choosing Bush (daddy) that November. I
had been reared in a household that revered Reagan. To be something other than a
staunch Republican was a sin. All of this thought created by my mother alone.
What a strong woman, huh? Anyway, while I was trying to reform the sin-laddened
Dem, R was quietly taking note. He sat himself next to a Stephanie Callis,
fun-loving and talkative girl. I thought they had a little thing going on, so I
didn't interfere. One day before class, as I was testing the buffet (talking to
a prospective guy) and I could just feel someone looking at me. I looked around
and saw R, standing in front of a floor to ceiling window on the fourth floor of
our Spanish building. He did a little wave when he saw me. After class that day,
he hung around waiting for my last ditch efforts at converting the Democrat to
finish and he walked me downstairs. He was funny. He was polite. He didn't talk
about himself as if he was the only person that existed (like so many of the
other 18 year olds males on campus), you know, bragging about high school sports
stats and other such conquests. We talked about Spanish, the teacher (a strange
woman), what a nice day it was. So began our daily walks and talks until finally
he convinced me to go to a park with him. When he first asked me, it truly
struck fear in my heart. I had been warned about maniacs that took young women
to the park with intentions of harming them. By the fifth or sixth request, I
felt that R was not a maniac but one of those nature loving kinda guys (right on
the money). So he took me to Rock Bridge State Park. I had never seen anything
like it. He loved how much I enjoyed it. So, the next day he took me down to the
Missouri River and showed me a cave. I was feeling brave and decided to go in.
It was dark and I couldn't see a thing. I asked him if I could hold onto his
arm. I can see him now, smiling and pleased with himself that his plan had
worked. "Of course." The arm was instead a hand, warm and strong and a firm
hold. We walked through the "cave" until I could see some light that grew to be
quite large. It was an old quarry. The entrance was large enough for a semi to
drive through. I stopped and looked at R. You see, he had convinced me that the
small circular opening through which I squeezed myself had been the only
entrance. I feigned annoyance, but was secretly pleased that he wanted so badly
to hold my hand that he had been creatively divisive in getting to do so. So,
our informal dating began. He took me Three Creeks, Rock Quarry Park, and
several others. Then he finally asked me out a on real date. At first I refused
him. There was this chemistry between us and it scared me to death. He was
naturally upset at my initial rejection, but he was persistent. So, we ended up
going on our first date to Glen's Cafe, a Cajun restaurant , with my roommate in
tow. The Christmas Break started the next day and I started my job working as a
cashier in the university bookstore. It was all coming together for R and I too
fast and I was frightened by it all, so I asked for some space. He hated it. He
was upset. He convinced me that I was wrong and that things could slow down.
Fast forward a few months, things are going wonderfully well. I have an
appointment to have my hair done. I decide to get it cut. Short. I have 12
inches cut off. I love it. It's fun, it's cute. R comes to pick me up and is in
shock. He can hardly drive and I hear more French than Spanish from him that
day. It's the hair. He hates it. Thinks it's masculine. Too much of a change is
too much for him. So, I grew it out. I have pretty much kept my hair at or below
shoulder length since that time and all but once in our 13 years of marriage. He
freaked out that time, too. I think that I actually look better with longer hair
anyway. Now, I am growing my hair to donate to Locks of Love. It's about four
inches from my rear and in order to have the minimum 10 inches I think it will
be ready by March. I want to have some hair left when I donate it and I don't
want any freaking out occurring. I have learned that not only is length
important to R, but color is, too. I had a wonderful appointment with Marcy the
other night. We had so much fun, talking, drinking our Diet Vanilla Cokes with
Limes (try one!). She did a weave and decided to go a little blonder than the
highlights from last time. When she styled it she straightened it, too. It
looked stunning! Guess who flipped? The next morning, my Coke-drunk love affair
waned also. It was too much for me. So, I called faithful Marcy and she weaved a
darker color into the blonde and presto- perfection. So, for now, the freaking
out about my hair has been eliminated and all is well in the household until my
next visit to Marcy.