The hair on Jay's head naturally likes to stand upright. It just likes to be at attention all day, every day. So in order to get it to lay flatter, a lot of hair product and time has to be involved. As we both have been forging more and more into straight-up middle age (despite our kicking, screaming and clawing at the floor while we're being dragged that way), there's a lot of little things I've noticed that we both need to work on. I needed to replace my black eyeshadow with light brown for the office. Jay needed to trim the fat from his wardrobe and finally donate all the shirts that screamed twenties vs. thirties. I had to purchase longer skirts for the workplace. And Jay needed to consistently style his hair in a more professional way for the office. Or as I call it, "no spiky!". He agrees with me on this 9-5 tip and dutifully swirls his fingers around atop his mop every morning, laying his famously stubborn spiky pieces of hair against the curve of his head. A pain to always deal with but a warranted one: Polished and professional. But if he ever takes a break for a minute and decides to forego what is now his morning ritual, we've got the spikes back.
Jay and I laid low Saturday (that seems to be our pattern - one weekend moving and shaking, the next weekend chilling) and didn't do too much. But after three episodes of "Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown" and a couple of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt", I forced Jay to go on a long walk with Chandler and me (Instagram of that here) through Pacific Heights and around the shops on Fillmore. Seeing how he was head to toe adorned in cozy day sweats and hadn't showered yet, he wasn't too thrilled about the idea of being in public. But I said we'd be fast and coerced him out the door.
And because I think we live in Europe 24/7, on our way back from our 35 minute walk through the hills, I pleaded with Jay for us to stop at an upscale tavern for happy hour. In his scrubbier outfit, he protested and protested before I finally got him to agree to a quick little nosh sesh. As we seated ourselves outside the restaurant and Jay tried to salvage his sweats into a cohesive weekend outfit, I looked up at his hair. So spiky. So goofy. So in every single direction. Its pattern that day could have been used as trial evidence showing exactly how he had been lounging on the couch just 40 minutes earlier. The couch where we were laughing at shows together, sharing hot cups of coffee at the end of a long work week. The couch where we were just holding hands and snuggling our puppy. The couch where our little life was blossoming.
I do love the look that Jay is going for as he heads into this more mature decade of his life. However, there's something to be said for the spiky hair. It's the messy, quirky personification of our casual hours together of shared life within our walls and it's really only something I see.
Well, me and everyone else who was on Fillmore Street last Saturday. :)