I quite likes Wednesdays, I do. Except when they're Wednesdays like today where the traffic is nuts and it takes almost 3 hours to get from my front door to my desk. [The distance between these two points is c. 20 miles, 25 at most. I had to make the same journey one Saturday night 'cos I had audience tickets for Tubridy Tonight and it took less than 30 minutes!!!!]
As if that wasn't bad enough, my new pink sparkly retainer box hasn't arrived yet :( and I have a headache and, to top it all off, Himself has announced he's getting a haircut.
Eh oh.
HIMSELF'S HAIRCUTS: A BRIEF HISTORY
My deep-seated fear of the possible outcome of a visit by Himself to the hairdresser/barber/whatever the correct term is for the place boys go to get their hair cut is not a new thing. Ooh noo. I was informed early on that what I consider to be the perfect length for Himself's crowning glory [eh, I said "crowning", people; does lifting your minds out of the gutter for a moment really require such monumental effort?] is, in fact, too long. So I put my hands up and said fine, go get it cut.
And he did.
And the result was rather more U.S. Marines, arrrr, than one might have hoped. That is to say, he hadn't so much had a haircut as been scalped.
Hmmm.
The chilling sequence of events that surrounds one of Himself's haircuts has varied very little since:
- Himself declares that his hair is too long.
- I look suitably terrified and manage to squeak something innocuous like "Really?"
- Himself relents for a time; a kind of uneasy truce is reached.
- A week or so later, I receive a txt/phone call/e-mail announcing that the shearing of the offending follicles has taken place or is to commence shortly.
- I fret that this is the time when the hairdresser/barber/whatchamacallit really goes to town and leaves me with a boyfriend whose head is so shiny it makes mirrors jealous or who is missing a bit off the tops of his ears.
And then Himself had the nerve to whinge at me when I got my gruaig chopped without seeking prior approval!! The sheer unabashed cheek of it.
I guess there's always a silver lining, though: if Himself had a reflective surface where his hair should be, I'd never have to lug a mirror around ever again...
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