It’s haircut week here at the Fun Apartment, so that means that the house stylist has been chasing us all around with scissors.
The man of my dreams has always been more patient with finicky tasks than I, and he has always cut his own hair, so he was given the scepter and orb long ago, and told to go to town, when it comes to those beautiful honey blond heads.
And go to town he has. He has cut the boys hair while they were eating dinner, bathing, watching Dinosaur Train, and sleeping. (Little woke up from his nap today, announcing “Mommy! There’s hair in my cwib!”)
Since he is well known for paying attention to details, you can all probably guess that these haircuts are almost strand -by-strand jobs, meticulously executed.
And it’s not just little boy hair. He has even cut my hair from time to time. And last night was one of those times. Little was playing around in his crib for HOURS, and since we have to maintain blackout conditions in most of the Fun Apartment, we decamped to the one place we can turn on the lights and pretend to be regular people: the bathroom.
Because I was feeling “precooperative” about cleaning said bathroom, I asked for a haircut. A long discussion about whether my hair parts on the left or right followed. (He had two major misconceptions on this point: a) that I somehow make a choice about this and enforce it on my hair and b) that I know my right from my left. Stripped of these erroneous notions, he pushed my hair to one side and got to work.
Forty five minutes later, I had a new haircut, and had had forty five minutes of conversation with my husband! When I have professionals cut my hair, I always squirm under the burden of strained conversations studded with half truths (“erm. . . Looks great.”) and bald-faced lies (“of course I own a blow dryer!”) Instead, trapped in our bathroom, we were able to talk about three different things! That is, for those keeping track, three more than usual!
And I have a haircut! A shorter haircut (the longer kind being somewhat harder to achieve in forty five minutes)! Look!
I don’t even care that my hair doesn’t seem to agree with the side part and is attempting to creep around my face. The handsome gentleman jumping out at me with scissors does take some getting used to, though.