05 May 2013

When Hubby Plays Hairdresser

This is one of those "I can't believe I did that" stories.
Born out of desperation. Fuelled by tiredness. Stonkered by silliness.

It's the tale of a crazy lady, her helpful (over-confidant) hubby and a pair of (blunt) kitchen scissors.

First let me paint the scene.
It's late. After 11.30 the night before the Big Trip Away. Bags are packed and tickets printed; our subject is sitting in her kitchen lamenting the fact that she ran out of time to get a badly overdue haircut. Her bushy brown do is defeating even her GHDs. And tomorrow she has to go and face a gazillion bloggers, overgrown. Sit on a Panel. Help Deliver a Workshop. She looks so unkempt.

Enter our hero.

"Oh I sure do wish I'd had time to get my hair cut," the lady sighs. "Now I have to go and face a gazillion bloggers looking so unkempt. SIGH."

There's nothing this hero loves better than to fix a problem.
His damsel is in distress?
Fear not, little lady, Help is on it's way.

"You need a haircut?! Well why didn't you just say so! I can cut your hair, no problem!"
"Really? You think you can do it?" the overtired damsel breathes, clearly not thinking straight.
"Why sure!"
"You can cut it straight? Just a little smidge? Like THIS MUCH?" she queries, holding up a finger's pinch.

"Easy! No problem! Just hand me the scissors...!"

I know what you're thinking: Who is this crazy woman? And what is she THINKING letting a mad Geordie loose on her hair???
I know, I know.
It was a dangerous mix of excitement and tiredness that brought us to this desperate point.
There was no thinking straight. Just a mad impulsive leap to the kitchen stool, and a reckless handing over of scissors. Blunt kitchen scissors, at that.

She closes her eyes and holds up that finger pinch. Two Centimetres.
"Just this much, remember?"
"Yeah yeah, I got it," says the Zohan-wannabe.
He plops a hunk of her hair on the kitchen bench.
That's an awful lot of hair.
She feels her stomach clenching and her heart sinking.
"That's too much! You're cutting too much!" she nervously peeps.
"Nah, nah, that's how much you said..."
She puts her hand up, feels... nothing.

All of a sudden she is 13 again, sitting on her mother's kitchen stool, feeling the air where her hair used to be.
Thirty years have passed and she's learned nothing.

WHAT WAS I THINKING? she shrieks as her insides turn to jelly.

"Whoops, better finish... can't leave it half done!" hubby mumbles.

Snip Snip. Snip.
Every snip of the scissors like a knife through the heart.
Finally Zohan's protege is done and she runs to the bathroom to survey the damage.

"OH MY GOSH! What have you done?!?!!? What was I THINKING?!?!?!"

There are chunks gone. And wisps trailing. One side is longer than the other. Instead of trimming two centimetres, it's more like ten.

"I have to go to Christchurch tomorrow! I have to sit on the panel! I have to help deliver a workshop! I have to get up in front of EVERYBODY!" she wails.

Hubby advances towards her brandishing the scissors.
"Here, let me fix it..."
"NO! I'll fix it myself!"

She does her best. Snips off the worst of the wisps, feathers out the worst of the chunks.
And then applies her trusty GHDs.
Miracle working GHDs.
Oh thank you God for GHDs.

It is enough. Somehow, amazingly the haircut doesn't look half bad.

Can you tell which one of these haircuts is Hubby's Hairdo?

Did you guess correctly?

Here I am, the morning after. With a sleek asymmetrical almost-bob. Actually looking better than it did before the haircut, according to Miss Fab (a noted DIY hairdresser).

Do you know, nobody even noticed. I was able to go out in public with no pointing and sniggering. And when I told my plane-buddies the story, angling for a laugh, they said, "So did you race and get it fixed up this morning at a proper hairdresser....?" It was that good.

Amazing. Nothing short of a miracle.
I got off lightly.

But I can promise you that when my hair grows back long enough so the "proper" hairdresser has something to work with, I will never, EVER hand my hubby the kitchen scissors late at night again. No matter how desperate (or tired) I am. Or how confident and convincing he is. Some things should be left to the professionals, aye?

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