Ever since my children were born, I have been cutting their hair. I am very bad at cutting hair and almost every time has been a disaster. Despite this, I am convinced that I can cut hair, even though hope has yet to triumph over experience. When the children were very small, they didn’t notice how uneven their hair was; that sometimes there were a couple of bald patches. Now that they are teenagers, they won’t let me touch their hair.
Twin A long ago decided that he likes his hair on the longer side. For the past few months he has been looking increasingly like George Harrison, circa 1974. I realized, just before he went away recently, that we had barely any time for a hair cut, and the hair needed cutting before the trip.
Twin A and I met my gay husband for lunch. “What are you doing the rest of the day?” he asked, as we were leaving, and I told him we were off to the barber, which was not something I wanted to do, because it was cold, and raining, and I wanted to cozy up at home.
“Want me to cut it?” He asked. “Do you have scissors and a comb? We can do it in your kitchen.”
My gay husband is not only one of the most handsome men I know, he is also, unequivocally, the most stylish. He is always beautifully-dressed, with great hair. The only fashion disaster I have ever witnessed was when he made the mistake of dyeing his grey hair back to its natural blond, but it grew out quickly, and none of us have discussed it since. This was the best offer I had had in ages.
We headed home, and Twin A perched on the kitchen stool as my gay husband started cutting his hair. I frowned. It didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. In fact, I would go as far as saying it looked much like me cutting Twin A’s hair. Which isn’t good. I decided not to say anything. My gay husband had been so confident, surely I was the one at fault; surely it would get better.
Halfway through the haircut, when one sideburn had been shorn off completely, a centimeter or so above the ear, I spoke up.
“Have you ever cut hair before?” I asked.
“No,” he said happily. “But I think I’ve done a pretty good job. Apart from this bit. And this bit.”
Twin A says that’s it. Not only am I not allowed to cut his hair, nor are my friends, nor indeed anyone, unless it is in a professional hair salon. Frankly, I no longer blame him, but as I have been saying to all my kids for the past seventeen years, the good thing about hair is that it always grows back.
(First published in The Lady magazine)