My wife?

Yeah, she's a little “different.”

And that's a good thing.

See, I don't really do “normal.”

I lean toward the eclectic.

I mean, you're talking to someone who never ate ketchup or mustard until I was in my mid-20s.

But enough about me.

If you know my wife, Renee', you are aware she may be dressed in slacks today, fishnet tomorrow,

or a combination of both later in the week.

She's good like that.

Actually, she's sort of a trendsetter.

She was arguably the first person around here to be considered “goth” (a word most people hate to be described as-even though they may look or act the part).

Years ago, I remember seeing her dressed in all black with jet-black hair which was sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes in “liberty spikes.”

I remember her wearing safety pins a lot, and recall a pair of really tall, thick-soled boots (which presently occupy a corner of closet).

At some point she mixed it up and started coloring her hair.

Not just “frosting” or “highlights” like many women do, I mean COLOR.

In her early teens, she wanted to die her hair but wasn't allowed.

Being industrious, (and rebellious), she snuck some Kool Aid into the bathroom and colored her hair.

“It worked pretty well,” she said.

But you know me, and my odd thought patterns.

“So, when you sweated,” I asked, “did it run down you face, and did it taste like Kool Aid?”

Never got an answer to that-just “The Look.”

Blue gave way to green, red, pink, etc.

Her hair became legendary.

It defined her, and like with Samson, it empowered her.

Renee' once worked at a local video store, and at an all-night convenience store.

She was often referred to as “That Girl With the Hair.”

I mean, most girls have hair, but hers was certainly a focal point.

And I was quite smitten, but it used to bug me she never picked up on the fact I was always in the video store, but never rented anything.

Anyway, not long after we got together, she had AWESOME black hair with bright red streaks.

Her hair stayed that way until we started having children.

Then something really strange happened.

She started being...normal.

One time she had her hair taken back to blonde-her natural (?) color.

Then she did the daring (sarcastic) brown.

Lately, it's been kinda, well, I dunno, just kinda “opaque” with hints of former color.

So, you can imagine my excitement when she mentioned “doing something different” with her hair.

“I'm going blonde...really blonde,” she said.

I was nonplussed.

“Blonde with blue streaks,” she said.

OK...now we're talking.

So, for the next couple of days, she holed up in the bathroom as the stench of bleach and hair dye remover filled the house.

“Shew, daddy,” our five year old, Drake said. “Why does the bathroom smell like?”

“Well, Drake, bathrooms kinda stink sometimes,” I explained to him.

“But that smells really bad,” he said.

Renee' kept her hair “hidden” under a towel, and was in a horrible mood.

I was thinking to myself that she must have been disappointed with the outcome of her homespun salon.

The next morning, I awoke to find Drake standing in the hallway.

He look confused, and was pointing toward our bedroom.

“What's wrong” I asked him

“Where's mommy?” he cried.

“She's in bed,” I told him.

“No she isn't,” he said.

“Um, yes she is!” I responded.

“No,” Drake insisted, “go look!”I walked in the bedroom and saw...someone...lying on the bed.

Drake and I both stared at the person for a few minutes.

“Who is it, daddy?” Drake asked.

“I think that is your mommy,” I told him. .

“Mommy doesn't have orange hair,” he said.

I quickly placed my hand over his mouth.

“Do NOT say anything to her about her hair!” I scolded him.

She woke up and asked what we were looking at.

“It's my hair, isn't it?” she asked.

“No, no, not at all,” I said. “Right, Drake...Drake?”

Drake had took off running down the hall yelling, “Where's my mommy?”

“Just tell me,” Renee' said. “What does my hair look like?”

“Well...” I said.

“It's orange, isn't it?” she asked.

“Not really,” I responded.

“What color then?” she asked. “What does it look like?”

The only word I could sputter was “pumpkin.”

“Pumpkins are orange,” she said.

“No,” I explained, “like a yellow pumpkin.”

“Nice try,” she said. “There are no yellow pumpkins. Pumpkins are orange.”

She railed about how I always wanted her to color her hair, and then when she did, I didn't like it.

Her hair stayed orange...I mean yellow...for about four hours before she disappeared in the bathroom again.

A few hours later, she emerged, and it looked as if she had died her hair black.

Cool.As her hair dried, I noticed hints of color.

By the next day, her hair was shocking blue.

I liked it.

And she liked it.

So did Drake, because now his mommy sorta looks like an anime character.

“I'm glad mommy's back,” he said.

Me too, Drake, me too.