Today marks six years since I met The Husband. If you're reading dear, Happy Anniversary. Yes I know it's not a 'real' anniversary but bring home chocolate anyway!
In six years we've got to know each other pretty well, we trust each other, we're comfortable with each other (not that comfortable, the toilet door remains firmly closed) and we like each other almost at least half of the time.
So I let him give me an undercut. With a design in it. Yeah...we might make seven years, but we will be talking?
I recently chopped my hair from my at-home, slightly wonky lob, to an on-purpose asymmetric bob. I was umming and ahhing about that Halle Berry photo and eventually told my hairdresser;
"Just do it. If I cry it's just my natural reaction to being left with an inch of hair, it doesn't mean I hate it"
For the record, I did cry in the shower that night, but only because half of my hair was missing. During my shower of irrational girl-monal tears, I decided I wanted a rose design etched in to my undercut. You know, a realistic shaded rose. Because why go easy on the man you love? Something like this:
So massive undercut undertaken, design chosen - it was time to put my trust in The Husband's clipper-wielding hands. I should point out three things:
This is what happened:
So not a complete failure, not a hair-up result. Looking back I may have aimed high. I probably should have gone for a simple line design rather than asking The Husband to attempt shading a life-like rose. Well, much like marriage we live it and we learn it.
Two weeks hath passed since that fateful night, filled with promise, met with both a smidgen of disappointment and the sparkle of potential. My nape has grown back and is ready to go again, but can I be bothered?
Nothing to do with The Husband, I reckon he'd have this down on the second sweep. My issue isn't even the neck crippling position I was in for an hour. It's more to do with the undercut itself. I had visions of Ruby Rose. But when I feel the bristles I think I got the Big Boo 'do instead.
If you have to ask yourself 'is this me?' chances are, it isn't.
What do you reckon? Shall I rope The Husband in for another attempt? Or do we leave this in the never-again pile, along with dreadlocks?