the old
school of relationships and thought the man should always pick up the tab, no
matter how much it hurt his wallet. The women Bill dated always allowed him to
indulge this chauvinistic tendency, without complaint.
When Bill arrived at Linda’s house to go to Bear Mountain,
he did not need to point out the surprise for her. “What happened to your
hair?” she exclaimed instantly. She stood staring at his head with her arms
straight at her side. He leaned in for a kiss, as usual, but she backed up,
locked in a stare with eyes wide open, as if an alien from outer space was
bending toward her.
“I dyed it,” he said, abandoning his attempt to kiss her.
“Don’t you like it? I did it for you.”
“Who dyed it?” she cried.
“I dyed it,” he repeated.
“You killed it,” she blurted out. “It died.”
She insisted that he go and have his hair fixed immediately,
and that was a reasonable request. It looked like a multicolored wig or the
pelt of a raccoon, an old, hoary raccoon. The multitude of shades in his
thinning hair extended from tan to the darkest brown—all dusted with the
grey of age—because the dye had not been uniformly applied or allowed to
set for the proper duration. Bill, however, was adverse to such an extreme
measure as spending more money to beautify hair, even if it was on his head,
and dismissed her advice. “Color highlights are in,” he said, trying to make a
joke. “Next time, I’ll do a better job.” Linda was more interested in going
hiking than worrying about what he looked like, so eventually she let the
matter drop, although she avoided looking at him the rest of the day.
Since it was doubtful that Bill’s car could travel the
distance to Bear Mountain and return, they went together in Linda’s car, and
she drove. During most of the trip to the park, she entertained Bill by telling
him what a piece of junk his automobile was and what kind of car he should buy.
The best choice, she explained in detail, was the kind of car she was driving. Bill asked an
occasional question, but mostly stared out the window, fearful that he would be
walking uphill and downhill for hours.
He knew they would easily arrive in the park before eleven
in the morning. She had wanted to come so early—it was the earliest time
they had ever started a hike together—because she said she felt stressed.
The strain of her relationship with Bill was probably the cause, but she didn’t
say that, because she wasn’t the introspective type. She only said that she
wanted to release the psychological pressure she felt through vigorous,
extended exertion. That was all she was certain about. Acupuncture wasn’t going
to cure a mind-body imbalance by itself, she knew. Bill didn’t share her
philosophy of health. Although he was somewhat sad and depressed, even if he
wouldn’t admit it to himself, hours of hiking were not going to make him feel
better. On the contrary, it would exhaust him to the point where he could
hardly move. He had agreed to come, however, because he wanted to mend the
broken tie between them. In his innermost thoughts, he doubted that he was
compatible with Linda, but he repressed those nuisance notions for now, since
there was not another object for him to lavish his affection on at the moment.
Unless it started to rain, he was certain she would continue
to punish him with her marathon march until at least five o’clock. Without
rainfall, he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her to go for a drive instead
or have an early dinner. His power of persuasion over her was nonexistent.
Since the rain had not yet appeared and might not at all, the closer they came
to their destination, the more sluggish and despondent he grew, while she
became more energetic and high-spirited.
When they arrived, Linda leaped out of the car and started
stretching, while Bill unloaded a backpack and put it on. Filled with water
bottles, food, bug repellent, a first aid kit, a blanket, and umbrellas,
school of relationships and thought the man should always pick up the tab, no
matter how much it hurt his wallet. The women Bill dated always allowed him to
indulge this chauvinistic tendency, without complaint.
When Bill arrived at Linda’s house to go to Bear Mountain,
he did not need to point out the surprise for her. “What happened to your
hair?” she exclaimed instantly. She stood staring at his head with her arms
straight at her side. He leaned in for a kiss, as usual, but she backed up,
locked in a stare with eyes wide open, as if an alien from outer space was
bending toward her.
“I dyed it,” he said, abandoning his attempt to kiss her.
“Don’t you like it? I did it for you.”
“Who dyed it?” she cried.
“I dyed it,” he repeated.
“You killed it,” she blurted out. “It died.”
She insisted that he go and have his hair fixed immediately,
and that was a reasonable request. It looked like a multicolored wig or the
pelt of a raccoon, an old, hoary raccoon. The multitude of shades in his
thinning hair extended from tan to the darkest brown—all dusted with the
grey of age—because the dye had not been uniformly applied or allowed to
set for the proper duration. Bill, however, was adverse to such an extreme
measure as spending more money to beautify hair, even if it was on his head,
and dismissed her advice. “Color highlights are in,” he said, trying to make a
joke. “Next time, I’ll do a better job.” Linda was more interested in going
hiking than worrying about what he looked like, so eventually she let the
matter drop, although she avoided looking at him the rest of the day.
Since it was doubtful that Bill’s car could travel the
distance to Bear Mountain and return, they went together in Linda’s car, and
she drove. During most of the trip to the park, she entertained Bill by telling
him what a piece of junk his automobile was and what kind of car he should buy.
The best choice, she explained in detail, was the kind of car she was driving. Bill asked an
occasional question, but mostly stared out the window, fearful that he would be
walking uphill and downhill for hours.
He knew they would easily arrive in the park before eleven
in the morning. She had wanted to come so early—it was the earliest time
they had ever started a hike together—because she said she felt stressed.
The strain of her relationship with Bill was probably the cause, but she didn’t
say that, because she wasn’t the introspective type. She only said that she
wanted to release the psychological pressure she felt through vigorous,
extended exertion. That was all she was certain about. Acupuncture wasn’t going
to cure a mind-body imbalance by itself, she knew. Bill didn’t share her
philosophy of health. Although he was somewhat sad and depressed, even if he
wouldn’t admit it to himself, hours of hiking were not going to make him feel
better. On the contrary, it would exhaust him to the point where he could
hardly move. He had agreed to come, however, because he wanted to mend the
broken tie between them. In his innermost thoughts, he doubted that he was
compatible with Linda, but he repressed those nuisance notions for now, since
there was not another object for him to lavish his affection on at the moment.
Unless it started to rain, he was certain she would continue
to punish him with her marathon march until at least five o’clock. Without
rainfall, he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her to go for a drive instead
or have an early dinner. His power of persuasion over her was nonexistent.
Since the rain had not yet appeared and might not at all, the closer they came
to their destination, the more sluggish and despondent he grew, while she
became more energetic and high-spirited.
When they arrived, Linda leaped out of the car and started
stretching, while Bill unloaded a backpack and put it on. Filled with water
bottles, food, bug repellent, a first aid kit, a blanket, and umbrellas,
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