There is a certain warmth about the morning when the first light of day streams across the bedroom, making shadow ripples on the tossed covers. I rise up to greet the day and I can see myself stretching in the mirror. Hello mirror-me. Weren’t you here yesterday, too? It’s nice to see you back today, but you have to do something about that hair.
The house is littered with mirrors so mirror-me follows me from to room. It’s ok when he is on my right side, or is it his left, never sure, but the other side is a scary-hairy-day indicator, if there ever was one.
How can sleep take such good care of one side and leave the other side alone? It must be that nighttime stylist at work. Remind me to tip her. Yet The other side seems to be preparing for a part in a Dracula movie, “Watch out kids, see the old man, he’s a scary-hairy-do Dad. That’s it, now scream! Oh, the site of it! The horror! My eyes are burning!”
If mirror-me would take better care of himself I’d be fine in the mornings. He looks like his left side got caught in a pillow tufting machine, and they had to yank him loose. I’ll bet it’s the dry air of winter. Mirror-me just shock his head up and down in agreement.
I stood in the bathroom and tried to explain the situation to mirror-me but that only lead to my wife calling the “Crazy Farm,” to see if they have an opening. That doesn’t scare me anymore; I know she has it on speed dial.
Perhaps one of the reflecting surfaces in the kitchen will be more helpful. Either that or I’ll have to get the clippers out. I wonder if that’s why so many older guys have short hair? If I wake up tomorrow and find my hair shortened, I’ll know something is going on in our bedroom? Is that scissors I hear being sharpened? Mirror me’s eyes just got big—