My husband made me cut his hair tonight. I want you to understand this clearly. I like cutting some hair, just not my husband's. Most of the time, I end up crying at some point while cutting Neil's hair. I don't offer to do it. He makes me. Why? No, he's not a control freak or anything like that. He wants to save money. There is just cause for him to assume that I would have no problem with this. I willingly cut and color my own hair when funds are tight and our ten year old daughter's hair as well, plus our thirteen year old lets me do hers sometimes too. However, admittedly, I have been banned for life at least once from ever touching her hair again. I must point out that the ban has been lifted. I cut and colored it tonight and she seems satisfied or perhaps just terrified to appear unhappy for fear of my reaction.
I have absolutely no formal training whatsoever, but I swear I can do a pretty decent job just from the experience of watching my hairdressers over the years. I've messed around with my own hair enough to have a little practical experience too. My hair, no problem. My youngest daughter's hair, no problem. She could care less as long as she doesn't look like a dork, which I would never do to her. My oldest daughter, well, she lets me do it when the mood strikes her or I tell her we don't have the $80 for the salon right now.
But my husband's hair... oh, my husband and his dark, thick, short hair. I fear this cut. I loathe this cut. I would rather sell my soul on a street corner than to cut his hair. Well, that's a bit extreme, but you know what I mean. I've accompanied him to many a haircut and I know how particular he is about his hair and I don't want him to look like a dork either, see.
Tonight was the night. He's been begging me for days to do it and finally he looked scraggly enough that I decided I'd better give it the old college try. I reviewed the previous attempts in my head, me in tears and him frustrated and saying, "Just do it!" and me boo-hooing, "But I don't know how!" and him trying to convince me that if I can cut everyone else's hair, I can do his too. But he wants me to use an electric razor on his. Yeesh! It might as well be brain surgery, really. I am so uncomfortable with those things!
So I decided to throw caution to the wind and "just do it" tonight and see what happened. Shoot, he had to shave his own head bald once because he tried to cut it himself once and screwed it up, so how bad could it really get for me? I didn't stress out. I didn't cry. I just did it -- and guess what, it turned out fine. I even remembered to take my bra off this time. Wait, I forgot to mention that part.
Now, you might think that the removal of the bra thing was for entertainment purposes or simply a ploy to distract him from the haircut, but you'd only be right on one of those. The distraction did seem to help relax him. However, the real reason for the bra removal is that the last time, even though I had a shirt on over it, I somehow ended up with little tiny pieces of hair in my bra which poked me mercilessly for what seemed like an eternity after the haircut. It was probably only a few weeks, pulling tiny hairs out of the fibers of my bra interior with my fingernails substituting as tweezers extracting teensy-weensy but very irritating splinters. I looked like some sort of wacko, suddenly peering madly into my shirt like a crazy person and muttering, "What the...What the heck is poking me!!!???" Even laundering the offending bra didn't help, so I vowed, "No poke in the boob this time!" I've decided I'm removing the bra from here on out. It was better for both of us, really. And he sure enjoyed the haircut more.
And no, fellas, I am not going to take off my bra and cut your hair. Make your own wife "just do it". Then treat her really, really nice for the rest of your life because your hair is literally in her hands and a woman with scissors and a razor aimed at your noggin can be quite a dangerous thing indeed.