The Politician's Wife

I read somewhere that those of us who have been married for a long time have in fact been married to several different people. That made sense to me. I’ve been married to zany fun-loving young Harrison, responsible, middle-aged Harrison, dedicated parent Harrison and career-focused Harrison. I never expected to be married to politician Harrison. When he first started talking about running to become mayor of our little town, I paid no attention. He fixated on it, so I encouraged him. After all, he was bound to lose the election, but it would get the idea out of his system. My plans went awry when he won. Suddenly I was a politician’s wife.

Harrison did have some good ideas to improve the community, so I traipsed dutifully along at his heels, trying to look supportive. The novelty soon began to wear off. I had to sit through tedious speeches I’d heard dozens of times before, knowing that no one would pay attention to me until the second I yawned, or my underwear fell down. I had to coordinate my outfits just to go to the supermarket or the post office, where random people were always ready to harangue me about what Harrison was doing right or wrong. The trolls made social media miserable. I began to count down the months till his term was over, while he basked in all the attention.

Several months after Harrison was elected, the local community center was renovated with funds which he had helped to obtain. To say he was proud of himself was an understatement. His halo threatened to choke him, as my grandmother used to say. Plans were made for a grand ribbon-cutting ceremony with a reception to follow. I bought a new dress for the occasion and was standing in front of the bedroom mirror trying it on when Harrison came in. He looked me over critically.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“You are going grey.”

“Yes, I believe that’s a natural phenomenon which occurs with age. You’ve never cared before.”

“You don’t understand. Appearances count more now.”

This person looked like my husband, but I wondered who he really was. The large ceremonial scissors with which he planned to practice ribbon cutting were lying on the dresser. I debated hitting him over the head with them, then decided it was not worth going to prison. Personally, going grey has never bothered me. I don’t know what we women have done in our previous lives to deserve to sit in a beauty parlor chair with nasty smelling goop all over our heads.

“Why don’t you go to the beauty parlor and get Essence to give you the works?” he said.

Knowing his frugality, or stinginess, depending on your point of view, I stared at him, puzzled.

“Really? You do realize that won’t come cheap?”

“Oh, that’s no problem.”

This was serious. I called Essence, (real name Mary-Jane), and made the appointment for a haircut and color, facial, manicure and pedicure. There’s only so much that can be done with a fifty-something year-old face, but I had to admit that the new hairdo and color, (caramel with blond streaks, if you please) were flattering. I went home feeling like a million dollars.

Harrison whistled appreciatively when he came in and waltzed me around the room. Suddenly he stopped and looked in the mirror.

“Now my grey is showing. I look old next to you.”

“Call Essence,” I said. “She’ll be happy to help you. The number’s on the receipt.”

“Okay…wait, what the…how much did this cost?”

He staggered to the couch and collapsed. I smiled serenely and patted my hair.

“As you said, appearances are important.”

I came home the next afternoon after running errands and stopped in my tracks as Harrison came out of the bathroom with one of my good bath towels wrapped around his head like a turban. He pulled it off with a flourish.

“Ta da!”

I blinked. His hair and sideburns, normally salt-and-pepper grey, were a solid, nut-brown and my towel was ruined.

“Well?”

“It’s got a sort of later Elvis vibe to it,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Las Vegas. Remember? All you need is a rhinestone jumpsuit. You could have a second career as an Elvis impersonator.”

“Very funny. At least I didn’t pay an arm and a leg for it. Look at the price,” he said smugly, brandishing the empty hair dye box.

“As long as you’re happy, dear,” I said.

We got ready the next day for the community center opening. It was a humid August day, and we were hot and irritable by the time we arrived. I shook myself free as Harrison tried to hold my sweaty hand, something he would never have done in his pre-politician era.

“Stop that,” I said, through a fixed smile. “There are limits to public affection, especially in this weather.”

We were escorted through the crowd to the stage, dodging over-excited children and dogs. I joined the other spouses in the back row of chairs, exchanging polite greetings, while Harrison joined the VIPs around the podium. We stood for the national anthem and sat through a squeaky version of “I Can Fly” by the elementary school choir. I fidgeted in my chair, feeling sweat trickling down my back, wishing I’d had the sense to bring a fan as some of the other women had done. Finally, with a painful screech from the speakers, the entertainment was done, and the speeches began. As they droned on, I lost track of where we were in the program and when Harrison was due to speak. Suddenly the woman sitting next to me nudged me with her elbow.

“I think your husband needs you,” she muttered.

Sure enough, Harrison was shooting frantic, eye-rolling glances my way, mopping his brow with a large cotton handkerchief. I sidled along the row of chairs as discretely as I could. He shuffled to the back of the group of dignitaries, and I gasped as he held the handkerchief out. It was stained reddish-brown.

“Are you bleeding? What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“The dye. My hair. It’s melting or something, and I’m supposed to go up there and cut the ribbon in a moment.”

I saw that the sweat running down his face was tinged brown and orange. I glanced around. There was no way to exit the stage unnoticed.

“You’re going to have to faint. I’ll count to three. Just buckle at the knees and go down gracefully. Nobody will notice me wiping your face in the confusion.”

“But I…”

“Just do it!” I hissed. “One, two, three…”

He was not graceful, but he did go down, dropping the ceremonial scissors. Ever the attentive wife, I frantically wiped his face with the handkerchief. Concerned faces turned to us.

“It’s just the heat,” I said, smiling sweetly and bravely. “If two of you big, strong men could help me get him to the car, I’ll take him home to cool off. Carry on without us.”

I handed the scissors to the deputy mayor.

Two burly fellows hauled Harrison off stage. Someone kindly handed us a cold, wet towel which I threw over his head. We got him into the car, and I headed for home as fast as I dared.

“Stay on the porch,” I commanded him.

“Why? What are you doing?” he said.

“I am going to throw old blankets over every chair and the bed. I don’t want that hair dye everywhere. When I finally let you in, you head straight for the shower and wash off as much as you can.”

I was in the kitchen with a large glass of white wine when he joined me. I poured one for him. Still shaken, he took a large drink.

“That is the most nerve-wracking thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t think I’ll run for re-election,” he said, shuddering.

“At least the town has a nice, new community center, thanks to you,” I said. “You don’t have to make any career decisions tonight. Pass me the phone, please.”

“Who are you calling?” he said as he handed it to me.

“Essence, of course. Can’t have that hair dye running every time you go out in the heat or the rain. She’ll fix you up, Mr. Mayor. Now enjoy your wine. Cheers!”