Cut Your Hair And Blow Your Husband

Cut Your Hair And Blow Your Husband




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Cut Your Hair And Blow Your Husband
I Let My Fiancé Cut My Hair With Kitchen Scissors, and Yes, We’re Still Engaged



June 23, 2018



by Murphy Moroney






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If there's one mundane task in this world that I f*cking hate doing, it's getting a haircut . I have no specific reason, nor can I point to a bad past experience to blame, but my feelings still stand: I dread it. Don't get me wrong: if my group of friends is relaxing with a blowout and a glass of Champagne after work, sign me up! But when it comes to the shears, swiveling chairs, and attempting to stay still for more than 30 seconds, it's a hard pass.
Long overdue for a trim, I started to dread the thought of making a salon appointment until a brilliant idea popped into my head: I'll just have my fiancé Chris — who's a hockey reporter with absolutely zero haircutting experience — do it at home while I watch Catfish reruns. What could possibly go wrong?
A few things to know before assuming I'm totally crazy: first, the plan was to do a straight up trim. Nothing fancy. It had been a year since my last trim, so I wasn't too concerned about my layers. Surely, they had grown out by then, right? (Insert nervous laughter). Second, I don't color my hair, which knocks out a very long — and often costly — step of hair care I don't have to bother with yet.
And make no mistake, I desperately needed a haircut. I have a sh*tload of hair and started to resemble Cousin It if you weren't wearing your glasses or were standing more than 20 feet away. Proof of that phenomenon:
After getting the green light from Chris, I ran to Target to pick up some hair products I needed for my makeshift salon, like a set of combs, a blow dryer (I didn't own one beforehand, don't judge me), a round brush, and a squirt bottle. I couldn't find salon-caliber shears at the store, so I went with the next best option: kitchen scissors from my knife block. Peep my high-end (read: janky as hell) salon:
Do I live in the lap of luxury or what? Seriously, contain your jealousy.
After doing an initial hair assessment that took all of six seconds, we agreed to cut off four inches. I said a quick prayer before wetting and combing my hair through. I wanted to hack off four inches and had Chris use a tape measurer to eyeball it before sectioning my bottom layer of hair off. Then he started snipping away. As soon as I saw the first clumps hit the floor, I knew there was no coming back from this.
I'm going to shoot it to you straight: the bottom layer of hair was a breeze to deal with. I put the rest of my superknotty hair in a bun at the top of my head, and the rest was history. Sure, he needed to go back and clean up some of the uneven ends, but it was going, dare I say, relatively well.
Until it was time to deal with the rest of my hair, that is.
Figuring out how to attack the rat's nest of dead ends piled on the top of my head was tricky. I remember hairdressers would cut some of the hair right in front of my face. I recall this vividly because, like clockwork, I would want to furiously itch my nose — and couldn't — the second the hairdresser got to work on that particular section. It's truly a terrible feeling.
Chris and I decided there was only one option: to comb the remaining section of hair in the front of my face and go at it. And I'd be lying if I didn't have a myriad of concerns during that particular five-minute period of my life. I almost turned back, but my bravery (and hatred of the salon) prevailed.
After cringing through the rest of my cut, I was finally done. All that was left was evening out the sides, which I'll admit almost took as long as the haircut itself. But, hey, it's important, because you can't show up to work totally lopsided, right? When all was said and done, I was pretty impressed with Chris's handiwork. My hair felt about million times healthier and and I got to watch TV and play with my cats throughout the whole half-hour saga. Win-win! But seriously, although I was initially nervous to leave my hair's fate in my fiancé's hands, he pulled it off in a huge way while staying totally calm. Seems like a pretty good guy to marry, if you ask me.

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Does Your Partner’s Opinion Matter When Changing Your Hair?


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Felicia Leatherwood: The Hair Whisperer




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It goes without saying but every woman has the right to do whatever she wants to her hair without consulting anyone. However, when you’re in a relationship, you inevitably take on a sometimes, unsolicited second opinion about life, love and yes, even hair.
Your significant other, by default, becomes your decision-making partner and may lovingly feel the need to weigh in on what they believe is best for you, even when the decision is about your personal appearance.
My question is, do we really care what our partners think when it comes to changing our hair?
If i’m being totally honest, my answer is yes. For me, my husband’s, opinion absolutely matters when changing my hair but let’s be clear, his opinion is not a deciding factor.
For example, one week after my husband and I got married , I decided that I was going to cut my hair. Not just my usual trim . I was going to hire someone to buzz down my beloved fro to a brush-cut. Faded sides, lined up edges and all. Now, I’d mentioned this idea to him before but never actually did it or even come close to it. I don’t think he thought I’d ever do it but I’d decided the time was now! I was going to chop it all off .
When you’re in a relationship, you inevitably take on a sometimes, unsolicited second opinion about life, love and yes, even hair.
To add some context, my hair hadn’t been healthy for awhile and I knew cutting it was best for me but I also knew that my now husband, previously loved my longer natural hair. I remembered how he used to run his fingers through it, tug at it and complement its growth.
In his defense, he’s never made a fuss about me changing my appearance. I’ve come home with short hair, long hair, weaved hair, red hair , and tons of unplanned styles without seeking his approval, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care what he thought or that I wasn’t silently hoping he’d love my new hair expression when he walked through the door. He’s ultimately very supportive and an advocate for my happiness but this was all new. This marriage was new and so was this hair.
To kick off the process I made the first cut. Stretching my coils to my collarbone, I snipped the first loc of hair and then the second. The madness continued from there. Snip! Snip! Snip! I felt so free. I starred in the mirror, admiring the nakedness that was my face. I loved it, but after starring for a minute longer I began to wonder, would he? I thought, I’ve been married one week. Am I already messing things up?
The independant, pro-feminist in me hollered back, “Hell no!”, “You
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