Cummerbund for Honeybun
A lot of guys have let themselves go during the pandemic. Gray roots, unkempt nails, bellies flopping over the waistband of baggy sweatpants. But not this guy. Whatever it takes, no matter what kind of crazy the world throws my way, nothing comes between me and looking good for my Lady Love. How good? Well, fellas, do you come down to breakfast every morning dressed in a tuxedo – the one you wore on your wedding day?
When I saunter into the kitchen, announced by the waft of my cologne, Mary turns from the stove and lets out a delightful high-pitched squeal that sets off every dog in the neighborhood, “My man!”
I shoot my cuffs à la Humphrey Bogart, cock an eyebrow like Cary Grant, and dazzle her with my thousand-watt Clark Gable smile. “Guten Morgen, mon amour,” I purr.
A lingering kiss, then she sits me down at the kitchen table and wraps a dish towel around my neck so I don’t get Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on my red crushed-velvet cummerbund. Dudes, think you could still fit into your conjugal tuxedo after a daily lumberjack breakfast of five sausage patties, eight strips of Oscar Meyer thick-sliced bacon, six jumbo eggs, a pile of flapjacks taller than the Chrysler Building, three cups of black coffee and a Cinnabon chaser? Me neither! Not without the assistance of (shhhh!) a torso-to-toes industrial-grade Spanx. Hey, if you’re not willing to wear a girdle for your gal, what kind of man are you?
But even more important than the tux – the hair. The hair is why Mary married me. Stays married to me. Because I’ll just say it – I’m not an easy man to live with. I have my little ways. For instance, I like to watch Jeopardy! astride my hog. That’s right – my TV chair is a turquoise 1957 Harley-Davidson FL Hydra-Glide. Which Mary just totally doesn’t get!
“Why not a La-Z-Boy like every other guy?”
Because, honeybun, nothing beats the style and comfort of a Harley Flex-Seat Saddle. And it’s not like I rev the engine every time I beat a Jeopardy! contestant to the punch. Okay, I did do that once, and there was absolute hell to pay. But jeez, the category was American Literature for 800 bucks: “Bedmates at The Spouter-Inn.” Duh, right? “Who are Ishmael and Queequeg?” I shouted, revving the V-twin engine a couple of times. Hey, it’s not like I sped around the living room popping wheelies!
Where was I? Oh, yes, my hair. You may not know my name, but you know my hair. I’m the gent with the pitch-black Elvis Presley pompadour. But I need to confess to you, Dear Reader, because the weight of it – not just the pompadour, which tilts the scales at a neck-crunching six pounds – has become too much to bear. I’m a phony. That thing on my head ? It’s a wig.
I’ve always been hyper-sensitive about my looks, which dates back to a moment of horror when I was four months old. I was born gifted, as we all are in Swarthmore. Yeah, you’re gifted – but did you speak at four months old? So one day, loafing in my crib, I touched my scalp – it was breezy up there. I jumped to my tiny feet and shouted my first words: “Good lord, I have male pattern baldness!” Look – gifted doesn’t mean genius. I didn’t understand I had normal wispy baby hair.
So first chance I got, I bolted from my crib and scooted off to the Co-ed Hair Salon. The gals there are wonderful, didn’t even bat an eye. “Hi there, little cutie-pie. What you need is a wig.” They fashioned me up a pint-sized pompadour – it was the 1950s and Elvis was big – and I’ve been wearing one ever since.
As every man knows, once you start a look, you gotta stick with it. So many insecurities, so many beauty routines.
My life had become exhausting. And then, five days ago . . . a miracle!
Mary and I got into one of those silly cabin-fever arguments that went too far. She suddenly blurted: “And what’s with the stupid wig? And the girdle and the tuxedo and a motorcycle in the living room!?”
She knew. All this time, Mary knew. When she saw my eyes well up, she hugged me. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I love you. But I want the real you. Plus, all the beauty products and dry-cleaning bills – it’s killing our pandemic budget.”
“I can be . . . me?”
“Please!”
What a relief. At long last, I’m the real me! My nails are a mess. My sparse hair is gray. My sweatpants are stained with Mrs. Butterworth’s. And I no longer watch Jeopardy! sitting on my Harley. Nope, now I sit on a Kawasaki KLX dirt bike and watch Fox News 24/7, and rev that sucker every time Sean Hannity comes on!
Writer Jon Cohen lives in Swarthmore.
