Shaving some years off my marriage is NOT as "hair"-larious as it sounds!

Like many of you, Brad and I were forced by this pandemic, to delve into the darker side of marriage. To push boundaries. And buttons. Things that we'd once said with an upright/uptight arrogant air, clouded with naivety, immobilized by morality, lacking ambiguity: "Oh no," (We'd shuddered at the very thought...the idea!) "We would NEVER do that!" This was something couples did, independently of one another. This was an act...a service...that one PAID for and tipped handsomely if extras were generously thrown in. It wasn't asked about...just accepted as one of those things that kept a relationship on track. Until the pandemic derailed us.

We ignored it as long as we could but the need was obviously growing. It was time to face facts. This time...there would be no other woman's more-skilled-and-capable-hands performing this delicate task. It would be ME touching my husband's head...

I'm ashamed to admit that it's been thirty years since our last encounter. We were so young then and lacked the wisdom and rhythm of more established couples. Brad thought he could hand me the buzzing, vibrating contraption and that I would just go to town. But I was nineteen...uncertain and afraid. My mother hadn't discreetly handed over a pamphlet for me to read in my room like when I was twelve. The motor buzzed in my hand as I regarded my waiting and expectant husband who was obviously eager for me to begin. Should I start at the bottom or the top? How much pressure should I apply? Did he prefer a light touch or a heavy touch? Should I pull it? Gently or hard? What if I hurt him?

So...like most things...I decided it was best to just not dwell on it too much and dove right in...and butchered the hell out of it. I veered WAY off course. I'm ashamed to admit that I left marks. He may have cried a little. And vowed that THIS would NEVER happen again. He would, henceforth, seek the assistance of professionals. I was a little sad but mostly relieved that I would not have to bear the responsibility for maintaining length and keeping things tidy.

But it had been well over forty days...

Forty days and three decades.

And there was just us.

First, there were hints (and allegations...sorry Paul Simon). The matter was alluded to. Lightly joked about. And then we just stopped finding this stuff amusing anymore (again, apologies to Paul Simon for song infringement). There had been an elephant in the room...in our marriage...for thirty years and we couldn't ignore him anymore. Because there is nothing worse than an elephant with unruly hair.

It had been a long time since that device had tickled my palm. Brad regarded me nervously as I inched closer. My hand smoothed its way along the contour of his neck as the razor raked away layers of hair...I combed the quarantine right off of my husband's head. It wasn't perfect by any means. I mean...I'm not licensed, after all and the only practice I ever get is trimming my dachshund's fuzzy little feet. But this time, we communicated. Stated our needs and expectations. Complimented and encouraged one another. Extended forgiveness and grace when needed. And in the end, we were both satisfied.

 A home haircut. What next? Dental surgery in the dining room? Probably. I recently cracked a tooth on a peanut M&M. Totally worth it, by the way.