Cosmetology School

One day, I was driving through town, and my husband was in the passenger seat. We drove past the cosmetology school.

"You think we should quit our jobs and go to cosmetology school?" my husband asked.

It is common for my husband to ask if I think we should quit our jobs, but usually he says, Do you think we should quit our jobs and move to a cabin in the mountains? To which I say, I enjoy my health insurance. Which is actually just a really sad American thing to say to pursuing a life that could actually make you happier.

But today, he suggested we go to cosmetology school, which was different. Granted it was about five in the afternoon, and he had gotten home from work at eight am, so he was in that weird state of having gone to bed after the sun rose and then having woken up midafternoon after not enough sleep.

"I don't think I would be very good at it," I said.

"But what if it's like when a firearms instructor says, I'd rather teach someone who knows nothing, than have to break someone of their bad habits."

Which is a thing that gun guys love to say, usually in reference to how they aren't sexist because they can teach a woman to shoot when she knows nothing. Somehow though, every time I've heard a man explain this to me, it's usually framed in a I'm just that good at teaching kind of way, and spoiler, they actually are totally sexist.

"But," my husband continued. "Instead of guns it'll be about eyelashes. Like you'll be so good at it because you don't even know that you allegedly can't glue a twelve gauge fake eyelash with that kind of glue, but because you don't have bad habits, you'll be able to do it!"

"I'm not sure they measure fake eyelashes in gauges," I said.

"I think it's probably like a shotgun. Like, some eyelids just can't handle the gauge. It's why the longer the lash, the less you can see." He gave me a an exaggerated eyebrow raise then stage whispered, "Because they are so heavy."

"I think you're mixing fake metaphors," I said.

"You'll probably be really good at it. You should really think about it."

"I'll consider it," I said.

We then drove past what used to be the Golden Corral, but the building had been vacant for about a year. Immediately after the Golden Corral went under, a big, expensive sign was installed. It said, in the comic sans equivalent of restaurant font, SURF TO TURF. Since then, there has been some gutted kitchen appliances in the parking lot and no movement on actually serving food.

"Surf and turf," my husband said, apparently in that liminal mindset where your body has no idea why it's awake so you read passing signs aloud to try and stay sane.

"It's actually Surf TO turf," I said.

"It's sad. This is the kind of town that could really sustain a Golden Corral. I mean, if that place couldn't make it here, what were they doing?"

"Sounds like they weren't running it well."

"Like they were doing meth in the kitchen?" my husband asked.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure Anthony Bourdain was doing cocaine in the kitchen."

"Oh, and he was good at restaurants. So meth makes the Golden Corral fail, but cocaine could have saved it?" he said.

We didn't know shit. He hadn't worked in a kitchen since he was a tweenaged bus boy paid in cash, and the closest I got to working in a kitchen was helping run a outdoor grill when I was a river guide.

"I think that logic is solid," he nodded to himself. "I think that math checks out."

This is the same math that calculated me going to cosmetology school was the way.

We got on the highway. As is apparently scientifically proven, my brother and my husband have both offered to send me papers on this phenomenon, there were eight cars across both lanes right as we were trying to merge. There were no cars visible beyond or behind the eight cars.

But I knew better than to ask why this was happening. I did not want to have to make another excuse to not read that paper.

Once on the highway, I saw the reason for the car clumping. A jalopy of some 1970's manufacture's attempt to merge an RV and a mini van was pulling a trailer with a wheelbase half the size of the RV. The trailer wobbled like it was going to explode.

"Look at that thing," I said.

"Dude is just living his dream," my husband said.

We passed him. The driver was a guy who could have been a hard forty-five or a lithe sixty, cigarette dangling from his mouth, passionately singing with the radio. He was completely happy looking, going fifteen under the speed limit, and at least twenty over the limit of what his trailer could do.

"Good for him," I said.

I wondered if he'd quit his job and gone to cosmetology school. He looked happy enough to have dared to dream. He also looked like he probably didn't have health insurance. The question of if he could successfully run a Golden Corral was certainly up in the air. But he did look like the kind of guy who wouldn't be afraid to glue a twelve gauge eyelash with the wrong kind of glue.

And frankly, I love that energy for him, and I hope it for all of you.

Get out there and recklessly practice some cosmetology.