Cutting Hair in a Pandemic …

I only go to the hairdresser when two factors are simultaneously in alignment. To be fair, it’s a rare occurrence. They are as follows:

1) The bank account is in the black, and

2) My dear husband remarks that my hair is looking a little ‘tired’. This is dangerous territory for any man, however this one’s no fool and would only ever pass comment when a) the hair situation is on the brink of becoming dire, b) there is a door between us and c) I am not hormonal.

However, in the knowledge that there have been no options/hairdressers open to us, he has wisely kept his counsel of late. However even I am aware that the benchmark of ‘dire’ had been passed even before we went into lockdown.

So, I tentatively asked him if he’d like to cut my hair. Nothing difficult, just a good inch or two into a neat bob.

Within almost undignified speed, I was whisked into the bathroom and plonked unceremoniously on a kitchen stool by my husband who alongside a look of utter jubilation, had adopted a rather dubious French accent.

“Just don’t bother ask me about my summer vacation plans” I twittered nervously as I watched him don the sharpest pair of kitchen scissors. Oh dear God, those two glinting blades, so close to my ears of which I was suddenly rather sentimental, and more importantly, my jugular. I did hope he was planning on wearing his glasses.

Standing behind me, he took my head between his hands and as I glanced at him in the mirror, his face took on a look of total concentration, and then, he silently got to work.

An hour later and a perfectly sleek blonde bob hung neatly just below my still intact ears. As to who was more delighted, I’m not entirely sure. But one thing is for certain, should he ever need a new career I think he’d make the most fabulous dog groomer, sheep shearer or possibly even a hairdresser …

K x

Ps.. As a matter of interest, if you could have a totally different career, how would it differ from what you currently do? Or are you perfectly happy 😊

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder!

group of orangutan
Photo by Aldo Picaso on Pexels.com

The kitchen timer shows 14 minutes to go …

Actually 13 now because I’ve been pondering about a title, but hopefully that will come …

I am dyeing my hair. I’m what a nice, kind person would call a strawberry blonde and my husband calls ginger.

In fact he calls me an Orangutan because I apparently have hairy arms and sleep with them behind my head with my knees up. Marvellous. Some things one can do nothing about, some however, you can.

We were on the tube the other day and I pointed out a rather beautiful girl with the most heavenly deep red hair. My sister’s was like that as a child and I’ve always thought it was gorgeous.

“Isn’t she stunning!” I whispered to him nodding in her direction. He glanced briefly up from his paper, looking over his glasses.

“Nobody can say that a ginga is stunning.” He replied bluntly and carried on with his reading. He does tend to call a spade a spade.

At this point I walloped him with my copy of The Evening Standard. His eyes widened and he looked baffled.

“What?” He yelped. I’m only saying the truth.”

“Pah!” I snort as frankly I could think of absolutely nothing to retort back to my gingerist husband. But it made me think … if he thinks I’m an orangutan and therefore a bit of a ginga, maybe it’s time for a wee change.

The smell of what I imagine is ammonia is hideous … every now and then wafts of it dart up my nostrils making my eyes water and my head jerk back. So now I not only smell pretty grim, but also have tears down my cheeks and am twitching. Rabid dog springs to mind. I’ll let you know if I start foaming at the mouth.

Thin plastic gloves falling off, leaning over the bath, water everywhere, ammonia making my eyes now stream, … I wonder if this gets into my eyebrows then I’ll match …

20 Minutes Later …

I walk into the kitchen where the Colonel is sitting. I think he can smell me before he sees me. Clearly ammonia lingers.

He sees me, sits up rather straight and slowly a long smile fills his face. Oh yes! Result!

It’s now a lopsided grin … Game, set and match to me! I feel fabulous! Claudia Schiffer eat your heart out!

He now looks slightly demented and is getting a tad overexcited. Calm yourself sir! Where’s the damn Evening Standard when you need one? I think he needs a good wallop or … something like that … But golly, there are children in the house and anyway that darn ammonia has given me a headache! It’s not often I hear him say, “Pah!” He scoops me up, ice blonde hair and all, and giggling we fall up the stairs …

Katie x

Have you ever changed your appearance radically?? How did it make you feel?