I cut my hubby’s hair last night. I have been doing it for years and it always works out very nicely and he remains handsome and I even get some kudos for the good job.
I was tired. I have a knee that is killing me. It was hot and muggy and the clippers were in my hand and on his head making the second swipe across his skull when I had a flash back to sheep shearing and bald bald sheep baaing on the floor of the shearing shed. Except my hubby was sitting on the edge of the bathtub and no-one was baaaing.
I did what any woman in my position would do, I kept going. I sang a little, asked him if he wanted me to make dinner that night, if he wanted a massage later on, could I fetch him his slippers, and of course I promised sex. I told him he was really handsome. And then I tried to block his view of the mirror and hustle him into the shower. Thank heavens for extra large bath towels and the life time habit of fluffing them before use.
The next morning he woke up and asked me if I thought maybe I had cut his hair shorter than I normally did. I was caught. I was pinned in my office chair, him standing between me and the door, the window heavily screened with pretty metal ovals. I began to whimper. I told him I had kind of wondered but the attachment was already on the clippers and he put it away last and so I thought he would never put the wrong one on and I went with it. I considered laying on the floor on my bag, legs and arms in the air and showing him my belly.
He said it was ok, it would be fine in about a week or two and he left me alone in my office.
I sat in the corner facing the wall and spent most of the morning thinking about the consequences of my actions.
Thank heavens I had one of those calming bottles with all those pretty sparkles and things. Otherwise I might have chewed my own leg off to get out of there. I am not good with long periods of sitting reflecting on my mistakes.
I get depressed easily.