Growing Another You

Today, my spousal unit asked me to trim her hair.  This is always a stressful request from her, because it has not always ended well in the past.  First of all, she insists on wetting her hair to make it lay flatter.  While this does arguably make the process more even, it’s hard to tell how much her hair will “shorten” after it’s dry.  So, I have to try to get the length where she wants it when it’s dry, while it’s wet. 

Second of all, our definition of “an inch” is not quite the same.  I attribute this mostly to her growing up with the metric system and not understanding what an inch actually looks like.  While I believe an inch to be…well, an inch; she believes it to be more like a quarter of an inch.  In other words, an evening out of the ends.  Of course, if she would just say “even out the ends,” then I would even out the ends.  But when she says take off an inch, I take off an inch.

Granted that time when I had issues getting her hair even, so I had to keep trimming more and more of it, might have ended with slightly more than an inch being cut off.  But I don’t think that just because someone cuts four inches off your hair ONE TIME that you should hold that against him for the rest of his life!

Still, for some stupid reason that I cannot fathom, she keeps asking me to cut her hair.  I relish the challenge to one day give her the perfect haircut.  I long for just one time, when she’ll look at it and tell me that I did a good job.  Besides, these haircuts happen with her mostly naked, so there is no way I’m passing up the opportunity!

This time, we were on the back porch, so we didn’t get hair everywhere.  When we got done, she swept the casualties of war into the yard, where they clung to the grass in clumps of dark-brown curls.  The way they stuck up in the air in between the blades of grass, it looked like they were growing out of the ground.  I made the comment to my spousal unit that I wouldn’t be surprised if they were to take root and grow another her.