Gary's Mom has been pressuring him to do something unspeakable.
She wants him to grow a mullet.
For decades, every time the man has had his hair cut, she mourns. She sighs, "Oh ... You got your hair cut ... again." Then she gushes about how she likes his hair long, and mourns the loss of the neck hairs that swoop up into a little flip behind his ears. I hear mommybloggers cry over the loss of baby ringlets with as much emotion.
A few weeks ago she popped a DVD into the player. "Watch this." she demanded. Gary had to watch an hour of some eighties male gospel trio. At the end he asked, "Mom, why did you want me to watch that?" He was afraid the conversation would turn to religion.
"I just love the way they do their hair. And don't tell me you have to get it cut short for your job: you're retired. Now you take a photo of those boys to your hairdresser and have her give you that haircut!"
"No, Mom! That's a mullet!"
"It's so beautiful."
"It's a curly mullet. I have straight hair. I'd look like McGyver!"
"You could get a perm. You had a perm once."
"In. The. Eighties. Give up! I'm not getting a mullet."
Wilma has lost this round, but the way Gary likes to please ... you never know.