My hairdresser and I had a wee disagreement the last time I had my hair cut over whether or not I, who had been growing my hair for quite some time, would be cutting it off. I was in the 'yes, I will' camp. He was in the 'over my dead body' camp.
He won. Sort of. He followed the style I wanted, leaving it several inches longer than I'd intended and pretended, in his professional opinion, that it was definitely the same (I think he thought I wouldn't notice).
But, this haircut I was determined. I was getting it chopped off. It's Summer! Summer is for chopping hair off!
So, how is it that I walked in there, told him I wanted it short, he agreed, asked me all the usual questions to do with restyling in his usual manner (as in, I feel like I'm taking a test, and he gives me that indulged look like I'm an eejit and have no idea what I'm on about (which, probably, I don't) but he's not going to tell me that at this particular moment), he sets to cutting and spends a good hour at it, and I walk out of the salon with my hair the same length it was when I walked in?
Apparently he with the scissors is determined that I am not chopping my hair off.
The husband thinks it's incredibly funny ... although he's not-so-secretly also very cheerful that he doesn't have to spend six months listening to me whinge while I grow it all back again after the chopping my hair off phase has extinguished itself in a haze of difficult to manage hair.
Maybe this is what it's all about? My hairdresser is a bloke. It's a men-uniting thing.
...
I wonder if the husband has paid him off?
3 comments:
But it looks so preeeeeeetty! ;)
I think we need a piccie of this haircut!!!
(and I think you need to check the bank account for unusually large withdrawals!)
You mean ones that I haven't done Gen? ;-) Oh, no. That's right. That's the Visa.
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