Buzz Cuts and Combovers

Have you ever tried to explain how to do something to someone for whom English is NOT their primary language? If so, you will understand what I mean. As you are explaining the process of whatever it is you are attempting to educate therm about, they smile broadly, nod their heads vigorously, and say "Yyyessss" in a long, drawn-out syllable. You pat yourself on the back, thinking you have adequately conveyed your message. Later, as they walk away, you realize they did not understand a damn word you said! Aaaahh! Such is the way I felt a few weeks ago...

It all started out well enough. I got out the Wahl hair trimmer that I inherited from my mom and dad. Neither Brad nor I had ever used it before. As I cut Brad's hair, I was thankful there was no big mirror on the wall for him to watch me from (as there is at all salons). I am sure he would have nagged me the whole time, nervously watching my every move, thereby ensuring that I screwed up from all of the pressure of prying eyes. (In hindsight, maybe a mirror would have been a good thing after all.) As it was, he was pretty patient and not as terribly nervous as I would have expected. So all went well and we were both quite pleased with the job.

Since that went so well, I thought why not have Brad trim mine? God only knows what I was thinking. (And no, I had NOT been drinking, thank you very much.) I switched to the #4 attachment, the longest one we have, and explained to Brad how to use it. Or so I thought. He smiled, nodded and said yes he understood. (Okay, this should have been my clue, but I was caught up in the happiness of my triumphant success on him.)

The whirring little hamsters inside his pea-brain head were undoubtedly thinking "Yeah, yeah. Wife talking. Blah, blah, blah. Just give me the damn clippers already and let me get this thing over with!"

So I am sitting patiently on an overturned bucket in the cockpit in only my panties (so as to facilitate cleanup by giving the cut hairs less to land on), calmly awaiting my new haircut, confident in the deft manner in which Brad would wield the clippers and the resultant trim job that would surely ensue. On his very first pass of the clippers, my smile turned to a shriek. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I screamed as I saw several two-inch long tufts of hair fall in front of my eyes! "What the hell are you doing????"

Brad's eyes were as big as saucers. "Oh my God! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!" he vehemently declared. After the initial shock subsided, I couldn't help but laugh and I saw the relief in Brad's eyes. Laugh and cry at the same time. No, I couldn't glue it back. Oh, if I could just take that moment back. In haircuts, as in most things in life, there are no do-overs.

Suffice it to say, Brad was NOW ready to listen to my explanation as to how to orient the clipper so as to get the right depth of cut. Now he "got it", but it was WAY to late for the front of my head. I now have an inverted mohawk that fortunately doesn't run the length of my head. Instead, my furrow of quarter-inch hair goes only a few inches back. Brad the scalper. He has always claimed he had some Indian in his genes. Guess so. Thank God he didn't actually get all the way to my skin. That would have been worse. As it is, I have to either wear a cap at all times or do a modified combover to cover my nearly bare patch. The saving grace is that I will never see any of these people again. I'm hopeful that my hair will grow back and fill in by the time we return from this grand voyage. Needless to say, Brad is contrite. No pictures will follow.