My Next Husband Will Have Hair

Who cares if that shit is made of glued on horse hair? I WANT IT.

Oh, stop it. It’s not even shocking anymore and it’s barely still funny. I’ve been talking about killing my husband for so long you’d think he’d have dropped dead just from the sheer amount of brain cells that I’ve activated at different times on the thought of offing him. But this post is actually very sweet, I promise.

Whenever I do finally getting around to killing him, disposing of him, putting on a good masquerade of mourning for him, then get myself back in shape (or at least back in my weight class) enough to start dating, I have a list of criteria for Dead Husband # 2 (did I forget to mention that I plan to make a “thing” of this, and that probably all husbands everywhere need killing?).

Here are my criteria, in order of importance:

  1. Don’t be bald.

That’s it. That’s all I’m looking for in my next husband. Stop judging me, I am not shallow. Let me explain.

I don’t care if Dead Husband #2 has a job or not. He can have facial tattoos, although I would prefer not. He can at this very moment still be living with his parents, but even there I really hope he’s not. The only thing he must have is gorgeous hair. (I told you to WAIT! This will stop be shallow in a couple of paragraphs!)

Basically, the only thing Dead Husband #1 DOESN’T have is hair. He has a great job, an almost equally bizarre sense of humor to match mine, he is so afraid of his children that he compensates by being awesome to them, and he has no problem with my obscene book fetish. He is the total package.

Except he’s bald. And I kind of think it’s my fault. He had hair until he met me, that’s all I’m sayin’.

So since I’m not trying to improve my situation with my next marriage, the only thing I don’t have from a man this go around is hair that stays where it’s supposed to. I just thought I’d try something different. Of course, I can’t kill Dead Husband #2 the same way I’m gonna kill Dead Husband #1, so the method will be different too. Or is that called, “My M. O.?”