I’m sure we all have pressure in our lives.
Something we know we have to do. Whether we like doing it. Whether we do it well. Or even, really, whether we know how to do it or not. But it must get done.
I have such pressure.
And it weighs heavily on me. Especially the closer it gets. Sometimes it can be ignored and put off. But it can’t be put off forever. And for some reason I am the only one who can do it.
Once again I have the perilous task of cutting Husband’s hair.
You think there’s no pressure there?
I am not a hair stylist, barber, or good hair cutter by trade. Or by any other decree.
In my defense of feeling pressure…it is very well documented that I have no flair, grace, or recognition of style. Or anything resembling style. So we have that to start with. Add to that an inability to keep my glasses (trifocals) on for any extended amount of time regardless of the fact that they help me see better. Add to that my total lack of grace with scissors or electric devices bought for the sole purpose of me cutting his hair.
Because he wants to save money.
And is willing to sacrifice for it.
He always assures me it doesn’t matter to him. He just can’t stand the long hair. A bad hair cut isn’t going to worry him any.
But there are other pressures. For one, he’s a professional. He’s a teacher. Who works with children with behavioral issues and attitude issues. I don’t want him going to work and having the children feel sorry for him because of the ridiculous hair cut. And trust me, it would be sympathy. They’d feel so bad for him they would not make fun of him. Not to mention his co-workers. How great would it be to go to work and have one of them ask if he was going to sue the shop that did that to him and Husband reply it was his wife.
There’s always the pressure of my kids seeing him and saying “you let mom cut your hair again didn’t you?”
And then every day that I wake up, see him, and cringe a little anew. Then go about the day catching sight of him during our comings and goings of the day. That is my pressure. My reward. For screwing it up.
He, meanwhile, being gracious and kind about all previous hair cuts says nothing but he needs a hair cut.
So. Today was the day again. I go to cut his hair.
First thing I do is take my glasses off. Don’t ask, I have no idea why I do it.
For the life of me not having a clue how to do sideburns. How the hell did I do that last time?
Blend? I know my hair cutters peoples do that. How do I do it?
What exactly is a cow lick? And why do people keep saying he has one, and why oh why mother of hair stylists tell me why his hair will not lay down right here?
What should take fifteen minutes takes me every bit of an hour. I use clippers. Trimmers. Scissors. I even take the hose from the sweeper and sweep already cut hair off of his head so I can tell the difference between cut hair and attached hair.
I have scissors and comb back in hand. Decide to put my glasses back on.
Hhhhmmmm. Well. That’s really about all I can do.
There’s no real way to tell how the hair cut looks until after he showers. He walks in to my bike room (see glossary) and says “the hair cut looks good but…”
“But what?” I’m afraid to look, but I do.
He says “is my hair thinning or did you….” He wouldn’t even say it.
Talk about pressure.
Husband. You’re hair is thinning. I did not shave your head.