I’ve been telling her for three and a half years now. Not directly. We men save direct for car salesmen and strippers. No, I’ve been telling her passively, aggressively, don’t cut your hair short.
She cut it Friday.
99% of me has no problem with it, it complements her round features, her almond eyes. But she disobeyed an indirect order, and there’s a part of me, 1% to be exact, that is enraged at her insolence.
I’m as far from a manly man than you can get. I cry, love Pixar movies, bawled when I watched The Notebook (Damn that Nicholas Sparks!). I don’t drink and have very few guy friends. In general, I shake my head at the male gender, but this is a violation against something primal, something raw.
I said no.
Of course rather than express it, release the rage, and process it in a healthy, productive manner, I want to punish her, shut down, make snide comments, and deny her affection. Sing along guys, you know the words!
She brought the castrated hair home, wrapped in elastic, to donate to cancer kids. Cancer Kids! Now what kind of fuckbucket complains about his GF cutting her hair when one, she absolutely loves it, and two, it helps dying kids?
This kind of fuckbucket.
Maybe I should re-grow my mullet, all business up front with a party in the back.
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