Recently, Michael’s barber left town, leaving him with no one to cut his hair. In the past he had tried other local barbers, but usually left looking like he was in treatment for some severe medical ailment. The super duper short cut does not look good on him.

Also, the man is particular about his hair. The first time I witnessed the grooming ritual I made fun of him point blank, until I learned about his cowlicks and how the water spritizing and specified combing really make a difference.

And I suppose that men don’t really have a lot of options. Rarely do they throw on a headband or pull their hair into a ponytail. Aside from a hat, they’re pretty much at a loss on bad hair days.

Since he was suddenly without a barber and with the wedding being so close, I suggested he come to my salon and get a “real” haircut. I had my 6-week appointment last night anyway, so we scheduled to have him come in while I was there.

Has your man ever seen you in full hair salon regalia?

You know, the awesome cape, the roots covered in an unidentifiable color, the layer upon layer of foil making you look more like a baked potato and less like the woman who left the house in the morning.

No? Mine neither.

He sat across from me while he waited for his turn and the look on his face told me he couldn’t quite make out what was going on up there.

When it was his turn, my stylist gestured towards the sinks and told him to have a seat. That’s when he panicked. “Um, what? Oh, you don’t have to…really? Wash my hair?”

I explained that it’s part of the package and trust me, you’ll like it.

Not surprisingly, he did.

The rest of the hair cut was interesting, as he threw out barber terms that needed some explanation. Example, neither she nor I knew what he meant by “blocking” the back. Apparently he meant he did not want it square.

He left pretty satisfied, and a little shorter on cash since, well, it’s not a barber. But he is getting a free cut from her before the wedding so he really didn’t make out too badly.

I, however, am going through my usual 12-week post-trim freak out when I am convinced that the half of an inch taken off made my hair so short.  I am aware I am crazy. You don’t need to tell me that.

Tomorrow is Michael’s bachelor party which means I will be drinking martinis elsewhere and most likely bringing him bottles of water at 2 a.m. and telling him to DRINK ALL OF IT before going to sleep.

It’s love, people.

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