Worth Loving
I keep telling myself that I love growing my hair out, but then I hate the way it falls on my forehead.
"It's irritating your forehead," she says
"Off the sides," I reply. "Just a little off the sides."
"Off the sides!" she smirks as she mimics my accent.
Did she really just mimic me? I ain't no tippin' a mimic, man.
"These aren't pimples," she says touching my temples. "It's dermatitis. Your Mediterranean complexion would be better suited to a buzz cut."
"A buzz cut?"
"A buzz cut."
Raised eyebrows, and I glance at her figure: trim like a cucumber, cropped blond hair, tight jeans, a red tee, and the skin of a Victorian. I undress her for a just a second, and then I stop.
"Your game," I say. "Buzz it."
"What?" she asks a little surprised.
"Buzz cut it."
She laughs and makes small-talk to dissuade me.
"Apparently," I say, "I have more faith in your judgment, than you're willing to allow yourself."
This gives her strength. Or anger. Or both. She brings out the clippers. I smirk back at her. She shears me like a beautiful bimbo willing to indulge a bad boyfriend's pet reptile. I don't blame her, man. I hate reptiles. Reptiles suck. I hate them. My skin reminds me of reptiles.
But her? She's divine, man; and any man could, would, and should love her. Like a girl worth loving.
"It's irritating your forehead," she says
"Off the sides," I reply. "Just a little off the sides."
"Off the sides!" she smirks as she mimics my accent.
Did she really just mimic me? I ain't no tippin' a mimic, man.
"These aren't pimples," she says touching my temples. "It's dermatitis. Your Mediterranean complexion would be better suited to a buzz cut."
"A buzz cut?"
"A buzz cut."
Raised eyebrows, and I glance at her figure: trim like a cucumber, cropped blond hair, tight jeans, a red tee, and the skin of a Victorian. I undress her for a just a second, and then I stop.
"Your game," I say. "Buzz it."
"What?" she asks a little surprised.
"Buzz cut it."
She laughs and makes small-talk to dissuade me.
"Apparently," I say, "I have more faith in your judgment, than you're willing to allow yourself."
This gives her strength. Or anger. Or both. She brings out the clippers. I smirk back at her. She shears me like a beautiful bimbo willing to indulge a bad boyfriend's pet reptile. I don't blame her, man. I hate reptiles. Reptiles suck. I hate them. My skin reminds me of reptiles.
But her? She's divine, man; and any man could, would, and should love her. Like a girl worth loving.