Flowbee stylee or, how to give your hubby a haircut

Sam refuses to pay good money for a haircut (we'd rather spend it on stuffing ourselves with sushi whenever and wherever possible) and since his mum isn't around the corner anymore to work coiffing magic with her Flowbee, it was time for me to step up to the plate. I have to admit, I was kind of avoiding his haircutting pleas for a while there. Shaggy as he thought his hair was getting, I was terrified, that, like the scuba-diving incident (see honeymoon blog for details), I might unwittingly do something to put his life in danger or seriously and irrevocably maim him. I couldn't live with myself if I maimed him or his hair irrevocably. Even if I didn't maim him what if I did a general piss poor job and he had to walk around with bad hair for several weeks? Oh the horror. The horror!

He sat a chair down in front of the bathroom mirror recently and said, "It's time." I gulped. But, I knew I couldn't run away from my conjugal duties forever. I opened a new package of scissors and swore I'd give it my all. I covered the bathroom floor in plastic trash bags. I pulled up my sleeves and touched his tender follicles one last time. After a quick tutorial on how to use his trimming gadget, we were off to the races! I was a little tentative at first (the aforementioned intense fear of maiming), but after Sam reassured me about 25 times (I wasn't sure if I should believe him the first 24 or so) that there was a safety on his trimming contraption that prevented me from killing him or even having the ability to cut him, I was free as a bird! I really like this haircutting gig, it's a lot like painting. In the end, I gave him a stand up haircut. I think he was even surprisingly impressed with how well it turned out. Maybe I should add barber to my ever-expanding list of part-time jobs! For now, I suppose I will continue cutting his hair free of charge.

One more note: Look how elated Sam looks in the picture! He has wild, happy, love-my-new-haircut eyes. That one piece in front looks a little wonky, but I assure you in real life he was an absolute vision!

Ode to the BC

I don't know if there's anything that defies logic quite as much as eating a little pink pill that prevents you from having babies. For the first couple of months after Sam and I tied the knot I was convinced that I had a rare disease that would prevent Birth Control from having any effect on me. I seriously thought I was pregnant for like three weeks based on my huge levels of paranoia and several pregnancy signs that seemed to have grabbed me. It's also possible that some of these things happen to me from time to time anyway and I just was paying a lot closer attention. Like boobs hurting. Which never happens to me. Unless I'm pregnant. Or think I am in my imagination. And for a couple of weeks there, my boobs hurt for no apparent reason other than there was a little human growing inside me. Turns out they were just hurting.

I can't tell you the kind of silent horror that goes on inside your mind for those couple of weeks that you've convinced yourself there's an embryo in you. I couldn't decide whether to let Sam in on my fear, but then if I was wrong I'd really feel ridiculous for making him worry. So I just whinced every time I had a boob pain, and obsessively checked google for early pregnancy signs "Excessively tired. Am I excessively tired? I'm tired. I wouldn't say excessively. I had a nap yesterday. What does that mean?" and on and on.

You hear those stories about people who were supposedly taking birth control, and accidentally got pregnant, or people who were taking antibiotics with their birth control and they cancelled each other out. You wonder if these people really did get supremely unlucky or were very negligent. I almost hope it was the latter so something like this never happens.

It's so strange 'cause I love children and hope to have lots. It's just the idea of this enormous thing happening to that you weren't ready for or hadn't planned for. Like tornados. Or housefires. Or other natural disasters.

I'm much better now about not obsessing over my imaginary pregnancy. I mostly trust that the little pink pill is going to work as long as used correctly. At least, they say it does 98.99999% if the time.

Girlfriend in my pocket

Sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend (a friend who is a girl) to pull out of my pocket or beam onto the couch with me. Most of the time Sam and I think the same things are important, get just as excited about LOST premieres (finally!), just as upset about bad actors and unpaid writers and daft leaders, just as tickled about Dane Cook and Craig Ferguson's jokes. And there are lots of great things about living with boys, like they're really strong and can open jars and packaging. They're really good at fixing stuff that leaks or breaks, and also can kill bugs and other vermin without batting an eyelash. And boys are super talented at setting up stuff I can't live without now even though I never knew these things existed as a single person, like surround sound. It sounds like those horses/machine guns/waterfalls are really in the room with you! But every now and then, I must confess, I get really excited about ridiculous girly things, like Eva Longoria's hair is fabulous! and I've decided what shoes I'm going to wear on David Letterman! (no there's no scheduled appearance at this juncture, but it's a probable theoretical) and when I make these kinds of declarations, I usually get a "hmm," or an "ok." Not that it would make much sense for him to get excited talking about some of these topics, but I need someone to commiserate with here. A lady friend to pull out of my pocket who will also get very excited about this probable theoretical David Letterman appearance and the shoes that I will wear.