If there’s one thing the lock down has taught me it’s that I’m now so over my family. Wait, that’s not what I intended to say. Was I thinking it? Yes, but I did not mean to write that.
It’s not that I don’t have a lovely family. It’s just that being trapped together 24/7 for over a month is proving to be challenging. Weird things are happening. For instance, my husband wants me to cut his hair.
Umm, that’s a solid no for many reasons. I can’t cut a straight line on a piece of notebook paper so the last thing I want to do is try to cut my husband’s hair. Secondly, we don’t own a decent pair of scissors. Sure, we have scissors but they’re not hair worthy. How do I know this? Because they have problems cutting the aforementioned notebook paper.
Also, you just don’t cut someone’s hair you have to layer it and do all that feathering stuff. I’m not qualified to attempt a bowl cut so there’s no way I’m going to take the plunge into what I think of as advanced cosmetology. But the most important reason I’m not going to cut his hair is because it will define our marriage.
Anytime we get in a fight my husband will bring up the hair cutting episode. I’m sure it will go something like this: “Well, at least I never butchered your scalp” or “Remember when you cut my hair and it was so bad I had to shave my head?”
Who needs that guilt trip for the rest of their life? Not me, that’s who. This is why my husband needs to just wear a baseball hat until the quarantine is lifted or perhaps think of doing a man bun.
If a man bun does happen it will also define our marriage because I will delight in saying, “Why don’t you tell it to your man bun” or “Maybe that man bun of yours was too tight?”
Well, now I’m almost cheering for a man bun because of the fun I’ll have delivering those bon motes and the years of delight I’ll get sending him impromptu pictures of when he had a man bun. It has greatness written all over it.
I must confess though that I have taken to doing some work on my own hair. I promise you I tried to resist. For exactly 33 days, I fought it, I think, valiantly. But then I hit the gray hair wall and it was time for some drastic measures. I became an amateur hair colorist and by that I mean I went and bought a box of Clairol root touch up.
Just choosing the color was daunting. Did I want a lightest cool brown, medium golden brown, or light chocolate brown? Honestly, I was leaning towards the light chocolate brown because I was hungry, but I decided to go basic and choose a simple medium brown.
The application process was scary but easy. I prayed I wouldn’t be crying after I left it on for 15 minutes to cover the “stubborn grays.” Thankfully, my hair turned out okay. Not salon worthy but I no longer wince when I look in the mirror. So, I’m considering that a win.
Not a win is now my husband is telling me if I can color my hair I can certainly cut his. He even suggested buying some electric clippers that can also be used for pet grooming. I told him that statement alone was enough to scare me and make the dogs go into hiding.
For now, I’m afraid he’s just going to have to embrace the fact that a man bun might be in his immediate future. Is it wrong that I can’t wait?