Growing up, whenever my brother and I would say something about my mom not having a “real job,” we would immediately get a laundry list lecture on all the jobs a mom actually has.
Chauffeur, coach, cheerleader, psychiatrist, pharmacist, nurse, doctor, chef, principal, teacher, maid, waitress, babysitter… you get the picture.
I’ve come to a better understanding of this concept since I got married, but the Mister and I have discovered something that should definitely NOT be in my job description.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not completely useless; I’m just useless where it really matters. I can trim over his ears and shorten his sideburns. I can make sure the line at the nape of his neck is straight. But I am not allowed to cut his bangs.
We discovered this a few short months after the wedding, when the Mister’s hair had gotten so long I was starting to mistake him for a sheepdog. I’d never done major cutting on a man’s hair before, but I’d had enough haircuts of my own to think I could do it myself. I dampened his hair, brushed it down straight and cut. Now this all sounds well and good, except that I had forgotten two very important things: one, hair looks shorter when it dries, and two, just because adjacent sections line up does not mean they are straight.
After several minutes and lots of hair in the bathroom floor, I began to realize I had made a horrible mistake. A mistake which only got worse the more I tried to fix it. I distinctly remember the Mister asking, “So, can I see it?” and me responding, “Why do you want to do that? You don’t have to look in a mirror, do you?”
I was crying before he even got to the sink.
But I have to congratulate him on the way the handled the situation. He stood at the mirror for several moments while I asked, “Are you mad?” over and over, and then tried to assure me everything was ok and it wasn’t that bad. But trust me, it was.
Despite the very odd angle of his bangs, I never heard him speak badly of his new style. He never once complained about how much of his forehead was showing or joked that his friends would never let him live it down. And he’s never brought it up to tease me since then. I really, truly appreciate that.
However, the issue resurfaced this past weekend when the Mister once again needed a haircut. Except this is no ordinary haircut; it’s the haircut to prepare for his Ross Vet school interview this coming Wednesday.
So, Saturday night, I found myself standing in front of the Mister, scissors in hand, hoping against all hope that I don’t screw this up. The Mister looked on with an amused expression, clearly reading my mind.
But it actually turned out alright this time. I didn’t wet his hair (on the Mister’s orders) and I used a tiny comb to make sure all the sections lined up straight across (also on the Mister’s orders). He’s not tossing hair out of his eyes anymore and he doesn’t look like one of my massacred Barbie dolls, so I consider the operation a success.
However, there will definitely not be any little Nuts in highchairs sitting above a floor of newspapers while Mommy cuts their hair. I don’t think they would handle it quite as well as their father.