I don't think they have hair on the home planet. I don't think they have hair on their heads or arms or faces or any place. No doubt the amount of hair that we earthlings have re-enforces the R.A.'s opinion that we are nothing more than unintelligent apes that have a strange aversion to Sharpie markers which further contributes to his conclusion that we are illiterate half wits.
Unfortunately, as part of his "assimilation" as an earthling, the R.A. had to have hair. But remember, the R.A. was not interested in this earth mission and really didn't pay attention at the pre-mission briefings when they covered earthling physical characteristics. Therefore he didn't quite get the earth hair thing right. He kind of muffed up eyebrows in that despite having such dark hair on his head, his eyebrows are extremely fair, sort of like a reverse Marilyn Monroe thing going on. The result is that it lends to an expression that looks perpetually surprised, even when he's charging at his victim while yowling in fury - "YOWL! YOWL! I am enraged despite the fact that my face says that I am bemused!"
And then there's the hair on his head. Well, it isn't so much a head of hair as a collection of cowlicks. It grows at unnatural angles. The only way we've managed to tame it is to give him a baldy sour haircut. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's like somebody looked at some poor slob in a run of the mill crew cut and denounced him as a long haired hippy and gave him a real deal short hair cut. Basically a baldy sour is a crew cut on steroids. It's more like an illusion of hair. Despite such a close haircut the R.A. still has weird patches of hair. Even his hair is defiant.
I know this will be hard to believe but we don't take the R.A. to a barber. My husband and I reckon that halfway through the session either DSS or the police would be called and at that point we would probably be willing to go with whatever entity would take us. Instead the R.A. gets a good old fashioned home shearing. My husband is our very own at home barber. Luckily the R.A. is extremely mellow so it's a simple procedure.
NOT!
An R.A. haircut is something that we dread like typhoid fever. Okay, more than typhoid fever. Typically, two to three weeks prior to the actual haircut I will survey a very scruffy R.A. His hair has outgrown the baldy sour and is shooting out in all sorts of ways that defeat the laws of gravity. I will casually say, "Looks like someone needs a haircut." My husband will issue a noncommittal grunt. The next day my husband will then appear with a freshly shorn head and with wide eyed false innocence say, "Well you said someone needed a haircut" purposefully misunderstanding that I meant the R.A.
More procrastination ensues and a couple of weeks pass. By now the R.A. is going around with perpetual hat head despite the fact that he is not wearing any hats. Finally my husband's mother will remark on the R.A.'s hair and then my husband will grudgingly accept that it is time to tackle the R.A.'s hair. But not without a lot of whining and sulking.
Because, literally, tackling is involved in the R.A.'s haircut. This is not easy to do while wielding an electronic razor. But I give the R.A's dad props. He has mad Viking/Jedi/Ninja/Sweeney Todd barber skills.
The Day of Reckoning will come. In a dejected yet resigned tone, my husband will announce that it is time to cut the R.A.'s hair. This announcement is made out of earshot of the R.A. One never wants to tip off the enemy. It cuts down on the success rate of coaxing the enemy into the bathroom.
Prior to the "procedure" my husband readies the equipment and the area. I doubt most operating rooms are prepared with such precision. My husband has learned the best offense is not having to stop and search for the proper razor attachment while clutching a rabidly wild R.A. between his legs to prevent his escape.
Then it's time for the Big Show. Usually by halfway up the stairs to the bathroom the R.A. is wise to what is going on. He's no fool. The R.A. struggles for freedom, yowling and crying. All we need is for his sister to look out from in between the staircase bars and call, "Dead man walking!" and it would be like an execution scene from an old James Cagney film.
Glasses askance, sweating profusely, my husband wrangles the R.A. into the bathroom. He hands the R.A. a lolly. Initially the R.A.'s lip curls in disdain and he looks like he is going to toss it back in his father's face. But then he thinks better of it (why waste a good Dum Dum?) and unwraps it, his vicious caterwauling temporarily paused. My husband moves in for the kill.
Only to be nimbly deflected by the R.A.
The Dance of the Razor begins. It is a wild, almost feral dance with much noise and drama. My husband is begging the R.A. to calm down and let Daddy cut his hair. The R.A. yowls his refusal. There is twisting and turning, wrestling and wrangling. And the tears! Mostly my husband's. Oh the inhumanity!
At this point my husband calls for backup. I can only pretend I can't hear his bellows for help for so long before I have to head up. It's usually when a neighbor appears and asks if everything is all right that I know it's time. The bathroom looks like the Hindenburg passed through but we've got more charred carnage.
By this point the R.A. is doubly enraged because not only does he have to endure the indignity of a haircut but there is hair all over his Dum Dum. The lolly has also made his hands sticky which means his hands are covered with hair causing him much distress.
I get to subdue the R.A. so that his dad can concentrate on more delicate areas of his head such as around the ears. This involves me sort of sitting on the R.A. while crooning about what a good boy he is. The R.A. spits hateful insults back at me as well as wiping his hairy and sticky hands all over my arms.
"We're almost there!" my husband pants.
"Hurry! I can't hold on much longer!" I choke back, my trachea clogged with the R.A.'s hair.
Finally and blessedly, it is done. My husband and I are spent but the R.A., consumed with fury and brandishing a furry Dum Dum, roars, rages, paces, pats his almost bald head, and scratches. Oh, yes. The cherry on the cake of this little project is that the R.A. is allergic to his own hair. There is no time for us to rest or regroup. We have to hustle the R.A. into the shower as soon as possible and rinse off the excess hair as well as his lolly. The lolly is more of a challenge than the body.
Fortunately the R.A. does like his showers and his protests are more out of a sense of duty than agitation and he does allow us to deposit him into the bathtub. He still snarls at us any time we go near him but there is no chinning. In the shower the R.A. paces while rubbing his head as if to say, "My beautiful raven locks. What have you done to them?" Warily he permits us to bathe him and wash his head as if he considers it a necessary evil.
Admittedly these are longish showers as it is also a break for us. When the R.A. commences climbing the bathtub fixtures and wrapping himself in the shower curtain, we know it's time to take him out. Well, at least 10 to 15 minutes beyond the climbing and wrapping.
I read somewhere that there are sheep shearing competitions. It's too bad my husband has such bad allergies because I think he could have been a contender.
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