"This is scary," said the Husband, as he cut above a chunk of rubber-banded hair. "Oh-oh."
"Hearing you say 'Oh-oh' is scary," I said, keeping my head still. He had two more chunks of hair to cut off.
"I wish you'd go to a professional."
"Why should I, when I have you—Monsieur Dicky."
This morning I woke up with a decision. Several, actually, but those can keep for other posts. Maybe. This decision was to have the Husband cut my hair. He cut my hair earlier this year, and it turned out nicely. Unless people were simply being nice about my haircut. Doesn't matter.
I haven't taken a good look at the result yet. He says that the left side is shorter than the right. I told him we have a new style.
It's a hairstyle in progress. I cut myself bangs, but I may have cut them too short to be bangs. We'll know once I wash my hair. Yup, you heard right. I didn't wash my hair before having the Husband cut it. I wanted to see if really mattered. Muahahahahaha.