BAD HAIR DAY
My submission for the
April Fools Day Story Contest 2024
event.
This one's for AJ; she's a naughty girl.
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After what she did... can you blame me for goin' off the deep end? We'd been married for near 25 years when she lost her everlovin' mind and broke my heart. Thank goodness the boys were grown and livin' their lives. Me 'n Ellie, she's my youngest (well,
ours
, I reckon), she was still at home, and we did our best to pick up the pieces. It took a little while, but we had pretty much moved on, enough that I got me a hair-brained scheme to get some payback. Well, the first one, anyway.
I started goin' to my ex-wife's stylists for haircuts. I say stylists, plural, on purpose, because I've been to more than one. Why, you ask? To screw with my ex, that's why. I made it my goal in life to fuck 'em. Her stylists, I mean, not my ex. I knew that if I did, word would get back to her eventually, and then she'd have to go find a new hairdresser, and
that
pissed her right off. I guess good ones are hard to find.
But Amber? I guess my ex really liked how Amber did her hair. Or maybe Amber didn't blab. Either way was fine with me, coz Amber was fuckin'
great
in the sack. When she told me she had a grandkid, I asked if she got knocked up at twelve, and she just smacked my arm, showed me her dimples, and called me a silver-tongued devil.
To a guy in his mid-forties like me - aww hell, to most men (and some women) from the age of consent on up - Amber was damn hot. She was about my age, but she was most definitely a MILF and a GILF all rolled into one. She was tall, with big brown eyes and shoulder-length dark brown hair - and who the fuck cared if it was her natural color or not, it looked great. She was maybe a little plump, but in all the right places, very pretty, with a perfect complexion.
When I asked her for a date after the first time she did my hair, she asked, "Ain't you Bobbi's ex?"
So cool that butter wouldn't melt in my mouth, I replied, "Why yes, I used to be married to that cheatin' slut, why do you ask?"
She just shrugged. "Don't matter to me, JT, I was just askin'. Sure, I'll go out with you."
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JT - that's me, John Thomas Winslow. I run JT's Auto Repair and do a pretty good business. My ex was the former Miss Roberta Jackson, and I wish to GOD she'd take her maiden name back, but she's still Bobbi Winslow. I think she keeps my name coz she knows it pisses
me
off.
Anywho, we knew each other all through school but didn't start datin' until the end of our junior year. My girlfriend's family had moved away, and Bobbi's boyfriend dumped her coz she wouldn't put out - not for
him
, anyway. Not sure how we ended up together that night; I think we were at a party and neither of us was in the mood for it, so I asked her if she wanted to go to the drive-in and she said that'd be all right.
Well, we sat in my truck and wound up tellin' each other our break-up stories over milkshakes and fries. Bobbi liked to dip her fries in her vanilla shake, which kinda grossed me out, but she sure was pretty and I wasn't about to complain.
I asked her out the next week, and she said yes, and that was that. We were together like sweet tea and sunshine all senior year, that is until I knocked her up on Prom Night - teach me to buy fuckin' generic condoms - so we got married and I went to work for my Uncle Dan at the auto repair shop that I now own and run. Dad, Uncle Dan, and I worked out a deal so I could buy him out when he retired, and he and my Aunt Shirley moved to Florida.
Hold up, y'all... I need to backtrack just a bit, so bear with me.
So... couple o' months after prom, I reckon, was when Bobbi missed her second period, and she called me up.
"JT, get your good for nothin' ass over here. And I mean right now!"
Good for what, now?
Course I didn't know nothin' about the missed period. But hoo-boy, I was about to find out.
She sounded pretty dang serious, and Bobbi was usually a sweet girl, so I did what she said. I pulled up in front of her house and she stomped out to the truck, got in, and slammed the door. She just sat there fumin', with her arms crossed over her chest. She wouldn't look at me.
"Uhh, Bobbi? Sweetheart?" I musta did
somethin'
, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what. I'd been wrackin' my brain all the way over.
"Don't you 'sweetheart' me, John Thomas."
Oh shit, the full name?
"And why are we still sittin' here? Come on, get a move on." She kinda flicked one hand at the road.
"Umm... where we goin', hon... err, bab... I mean, Bobbi?"
"CVS," she said, and there was a little bit of a catch in her voice. I risked a glance at her, but she hadn't moved. Eyes dead ahead, arms still folded, feet planted on the floorboard. This was bad. Usually, she liked to scooch over by me, lean back, and put a foot up on the dash. That's why I loved the bench seat in my truck, but now, there was the Great Wall of Pissed-Off Girlfriend runnin' right down the middle.
I reckoned I better keep my mouth shut and drive. So that's what I did.
When we got there, I started to say, "You want me to..." but that's about as far as I got before she was out o' the truck and headed inside the store. She did turn and point at me, to stay put. Put, I stayed.
By now I was startin' to feel kinda queasy, and it kep' gettin' worse and worse as I sat there for the next 15 minutes. I was about to go in after her when I saw her comin' out, and she looked horrible. I jumped out of the truck and went over to her.
She looked up at me, and she was cryin'.
"Bobbi, sugar bug, please tell me what's wrong?"
She stood there lookin' up at me, her lip tremblin', and finally, she held up the little stick thing.