Monthly Archives: February 2012

The Toilet Roll War

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on February 23, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.) I noticed it as soon as I walked in the room, balanced precariously on the edge of the valance. Amateur, I thought, taking it down and tossing it into the garbage. Why not just string Christmas lights around it next time? Married couples develop odd little games after a while, and Kristen and I are no different. These games are never stated as such, and very rarely acknowledged. It might be a game of, "Who's Letting the Dogs Out Before Bedtime?" or "Who Will Empty the Dishwasher?" My favorites are, "Who Will Break Down and Find That Smell?" and "Who is Gonna Answer The Damn Phone! Nothing, however, trumps the Toilet Roll War. Ours started innocently enough, as these games usually do. My wife crawled into bed and bonked me on the head with an empty toilet paper roll. "You didn't replace the roll again," she said, settling into her pillow. "Yes, I did." I replied, putting my book down. "I just put a new one in there this afternoon." "No, you just threw a new roll on top of the toilet." "Like I said," I replied. "New roll." Some consider the source of marital friction to be an indication of that marriage’s overall health. My wife and I are lucky in that we never argue over the important things like love, respect, or the general direction of our lives. Instead, we can major in minor things like how to properly replace bathroom tissue. Every couple has its own bathroom battles, of course—some argue about whether or not to roll up the toothpaste from the bottom, others over the failure to wipe the mirror after brushing one’s teeth. For my wife, an empty toilet paper roll is like a raised middle finger. As a man, if toilet paper is within my reach, it’s where it’s supposed to be. Even the inventor of modern toilet paper, Joseph Gayetty, thought so little of it that he had no problem watermarking his name onto each sheet. It makes no difference to me whether the paper is on the roller or resting comfortably on the shelf of the toilet. In fact, the very idea that toilet paper would require a holder at all seems ludicrous. I would not have included the unfurling of tissue paper on my list of required assistive technology, yet no bathroom in America is complete without a toilet paper roller. Instead, I would argue that it’s done more harm than good. As anyone who’s ever been in a rush can attest, a hastily pulled handful of toilet paper can spin the rest of the roll into a heap on the floor. Our efforts to re-roll the paper onto the holder look like a child’s attempt at mummification, and the paper rips at every subsequent turn of the roll. This is progress Any visit to a public restroom reveals the ludicrous extremes to which…

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Short, Gray Locks of Love

(Originally posted in the Stratford Star and Fairfield Sun newspapers on February 9, 2012, in my  “Walsh’s Wonderings” column.) “No, you’re not.” My wife said it so quickly, and with such authority, that I was stunned into silence. I had tossed my comment out casually, delicately, as one would a Nerf ball to a small child. “It shouldn’t take that long,” I replied. “You said so yourself—it grows so quickly. “You know you’re going to look ridiculous,” she sighed, using her time-tested strategy of allowing me just enough rope to hang myself. Or, more appropriately, enough hair to embarrass myself—which in this case would be a minimum of ten inches. That’s the shortest length for a donation to Locks of Love, a non-profit charity that accepts donations of human hair and money to make wigs for needy children who’ve lost their hair due to medical conditions. The idea had come to me while thinking of new ways to get my eighth grade language arts classes excited about community service. Middle school students are terrific at raising money for various causes, but I wanted to challenge them to stretch their wings and find additional, novel ways to give. What better way to advertise this than having their middle-aged, follicle-challenged teacher attempt to grow out his hair for the first time since college? After all, almost 80% of all hair donations are made by kids to help other kids. To appreciate the sheer absurdity of it, one must realize that I’ve maintained a Beetle Bailey buzz cut for the last twenty years. My wife had never seen my hair touch my eyebrows, much less go past my shoulders. Telling her that I planned on growing a ponytail was like telling her I planned to fly to the moon… only more embarrassing. This way, she’d have this wild gray mane accompanying her to every wedding or funeral until I was allowed to cut it. At the time of my announcement, I hadn’t cut my hair in almost four months. It was with great excitement that I pulled out the measuring tape, thinking the length would probably fall somewhere between Moses and a teenage Andre Agassi.  For someone who’d learned how to shear my own hair because I didn’t think my wife cut it short enough, it felt like my Jim Morrison period. Alas, it turned out to be closer to the retired Agassi—two inches at its longest. It was time to acknowledge that my hair had long passed its expiration date—my hairline has receded to the point where my forehead has become a five-head. Even I realize that the best I could hope to accomplish was the dreaded Garfunkel, a hairstyle that can best be described as patches of thinning hair clinging desperately to the top and rear of one’s head. Much like Garfunkel’s similarly challenged partner, Paul Simon, my head was never meant to permanently host hair. Still, I harbored hope that I had one last run in me. I don’t have the money to buy a…

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