Paul agreed to let me cut his hair. On purpose. [Insert evil laugh here].
Paul's hair could be cut every week it grows so fast. Like a Chia Pet. In fact, it should be cut every week or it turns into a male version of the bouffant. Personally, I prefer my man with a closer cut. Not quite David Beckman short, but then again, not quite Edward Norton long. More of a Bradley Cooper length.
Paul is used to going to a "fancy" barber where the girls have things pierced that shouldn't be, tatts, tight clothes and big boobs. My barbering wardrobe of choice...yoga pants and a tank top.
I routed out my trusty hair clippers which hadn't been used since...well, they had actually never been used [shhhhhh]. Luckily (for me) it came with some handy "how to" instructions. [Note to self: try not to let your test subject see you reading "how to" instructions. It really doesn't instill confidence.]
The last time I had cut a guy's hair, I used scissors. I also ended up cutting off a tiny piece of his ear. Drama ensued. And my son has never let me forget it. Personally, I think it gives him character. Who needs a fully intact ear? People need quirks.
After a quick pep talk ["I will not make Paul look like Da Vinci"] I took a deep breath, and plugged in the clipper. I turned it on. I turned it off. I turned it on again.
After the 5th "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked Paul if I could have a quick glass of wine before I began. I find I am a better bowler after a glass of wine, so I assumed the same applied to hair cutting. Afterall, they both involve hands and shiny objects. (For the record, Paul wanted a sober stylist).
Now I was getting a bit nervous. After all, what if I ruined his follicle hotness?
Sometimes when I get a bit nervous, I get the giggles (this was one of those times). I flicked the switch and started buzzin' away. I tried to go slow and steady, but every so often the clipper would surge and a loud "ZZZZzzzz" erupted. Naturally, this was followed by a look of horror from Paul, wondering if I'd just given him an unintentional bald spot (I didn't). But the look on his face made me laugh even harder, which only made Paul more paranoid. He kept asking whether he could cut my hair in return (for the record, cutting girl's hair is SO different).
To make a long story short (no pun intended), I did the best job I could. Unfortunately, the best job I could made Paul's head look pumpkin-esque. And there's this one spot, not matter how many times I cut it, still stuck out. I begged Paul to try some pomade. It helped. [Slightly.]
Perhaps not everything that comes with "how to" instructions should be attempted. I mean, how could guys hair be so complicated? I wonder if this is how the Trump's barber feels.