My hubby and I can be kind of cheap. Not in the traditional “count every penny and waste not/want not” kind of way. More in the “loathe spending money on things that won’t benefit us in some way, shape or form” kind of way.
This “cheapness” extends itself into different parts of our lives. For instance, we both hate buying batteries. They are just so temporary. And then there’s the whole responsible disposal element. So much pressure. We also can’t stand spending money on stamps, therefore guaranteeing that at any point in time we are needing to mail something,we will be out of them. We stand there, staring at the stampless envelope as if by sheer brain power alone we can figure out an alternative way to mail the thing. We haven’t come up with one yet but will let you knowas soon as we do.
The third and probably most soul-suckingly frustrating expenditure of our hard-earned cash is groomingour dog…Lewis.
Lewis is one part poodle, one part shit-zu and one partgiant pain in my butt. He’s probably the world’s laziest animal and spends his entire day finding different throw pillows around my house to form into a misshapen nap spot. He is a teensy little guy, weighing all of 8 pounds, and is somehow magnetically attracted to my feet as I find him under them throughout most of the day. He also has an abnormally large amount of hair on his little butternut squash-sized body and therefore requires quite a bit of upkeep.
Lewis is a little over 3 years old and has been to the groomer approximately4 times.He has spent the better part of his young life looking like a cross between a small hairyrodent and an oversized brillo pad.
Did I mention that we’re cheap?
So, Jer, in all his fiscally-minded brilliance decided that he would cut the dogs hair. Why not? He cuts Jack’s hair and has been cutting his own for several years now. (Occasionally he gets all Vidal Sassoon on us and cutsboth my brother’s and neighbor’s hair. I’ll admit it’s a tiny bit disturbing to see his hands brushing across my brother’s forehead. Gross.)
Anyway, how hard could it be? Right?
Oh. My. God.
I am pretty sure that dog groomers have got to be one of the most under-appreciated masters of artistic expression. They have a gift, people. A serious calling. My husband stood there hacking away at that dog’s hair for two hours. Two flippin’ hours. I heard more cuss words coming out of his mouth than a drunk sailor. Hair was flying, scissors were slicing and the dog was…
sleeping. Through it all. Jer had to result to cradling the dog like a newborn baby because Lewis refused to stand upright.
With each snip of the scissors I could feel poor Jer’s manhood slipping through the cracks.
With each slice of the blade I could feel Jer wilting into a shadow of his former self.
And then it was over. Sure, we saved ourselves $30.00 in grooming fees, but what did we lose instead? Jer’s pride? His machismo?
Should I have—nah, it was worth it. I’d rather have the 30 bucks. I’ve already penciled in Lewis’ next hair appointment.