Yup, I have to admit it. I had a rattail. But, see, it really isn’t my fault. I never wanted one. The opportunity just sort of came up, if you know what I mean.
You don’t?
Okay, here’s how it happened. I really dislike taking time to get a haircut. This means that more often than not, my hair is a bit long and reasonably shaggy looking. Sometime back when rattails were popular (1990?), I went to get a haircut and took Andrea with me. The woman that was going to cut my hair asked what I’d like and I said something silly, mostly for Andrea’s benefit. She rolled her eyes and gave me the “oh, Dad” bit.
Now, that struck us (me and the haircutter) as funny.
So, we rolled with it. We went back and forth, each idea a bit wilder than the last, until she finally suggested a rattail. That really got Andrea. Out of sheer perversity, I agreed and the woman left a longer clump of hair a bit off of center to the right on the back of my head. Iris thought I’d lost my mind when I got home, until I told her what happened. She thought it was funny, too.
It seemed like a day couldn’t go by without Andrea making some sort of comment about my hair. After a week or two of this, I decided to keep it until Andrea said she liked it. What I hadn’t anticipated was it would take quite a while for her to like it.
Time passed.
My rattail became reasonably respectable. When braided, it was maybe 18-20 inches long. There’s even a picture of me in a tux at a friend’s wedding with Iris braiding it. I actually liked it.
All good things must come to an end, however, and so did the rattail. Andrea decided it was okay and said she liked it. I got up, went in the bathroom, got a pair of scissors and cut it off. I went back into the room where Andrea was and dropped it into her hand. “Glad you like it”, I said, “you can have it.”
