My husband has always been a clean-shaven guy who would get a haircut every three months like clockwork – but ever since COVID-19 started, it’s almost as if he’s been in a competition to see how uncivilized he can make himself look.
It started around mid-March, when the fact that he began working from home allowed him to only shave every few days instead of every day or so. OK, mildly unpleasant for me, but it’s his body, right? “Let it go,” I told myself.
Then, around mid-April, he stopped showering every day, and “mildy unpleasant” soon turned to “more-than-mildly unpleasant” for me. But it’s his body, right? “Let it go and open the windows,” I told myself.
Soon enough, May arrived, and along with it were locks of hair that were beginning to cover my husband’s face. I soon became aware that he also had no intention of getting a haircut anytime soon. But it’s his body, right? “Open the windows, let it go, and look away,” I told myself.
By mid-June, this “playing the martyr” act was getting old. I explained that as the person who gave birth in the family, I – not HIM – should be the one allowed to “let herself go,” and that maybe it was time for some self-care??
My pleas fell on deaf ears. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.
But just as I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that my husband was destined to look like a grotesque combination of Tarzan, Chewbacca and Jesus, my daughter saved the day.
Do you know what she did?
She calmly said, “Daddy, I would like you to please cut your hair. I do not like it long.”
In an instant, my husband had gathered up his electric razor, a pair of scissors, a razor blade, shaving cream, a bowl of warm water and a chair.
“Let’s give Daddy a haircut right NOW then!” he empathically responded.
Thankfully, the doubtless affirmation I had just received of NOT being #1 on his list of important people anymore was overshadowed by my sheer elation at finally being able to give him a haircut, so I quickly capitalized on the opportunity before he risked changing his mind. My daughter, in the meantime, dutifully assembled her own critical supplies, not realizing just how indebted I was to her at that very moment.
We picked a spot in the middle of the living room. I wasn’t even going to argue that going outside would be a lot smarter because time was of the essence. My daughter pulled up a folding chair and stood on it, beginning to “trim” away at the bird’s nest before her with her Play-Doh scissors. I, meanwhile, went to work with the electric razor.
For the longest time, I kept passing the razor up and down the back of his head without any hair actually falling off. Figuring that this was just because there was so MUCH of it, I kept at it. But about five minutes in, B stumbled on her chair. Attempting to catch her from falling, I shut off the razor (silently patting myself on the back for remembering to actually do this) and grabbed her with my free arm.
It was at that moment when about 90% of my husband’s hair – in one fell swoop – cascaded out of my hands and onto the floor. As I now have determined, the razor had been working just fine, but I just didn’t know where to look.
The resulting haircut is at least two full inches shorter than it was supposed to be and looks absolutely disastrous. I’m completely aware that my husband will never let me near his head again – but no matter how badly I may have accidentally cut it, there’s still a really, REALLY big part of me that is just happy so much of it is gone….