The mancut

My husband must be the world's most squirmy haircut victim and that means I'm comparing him to Zachary... We have been married for seven years and until this sunny afternoon, he has never let me near his hair with scissors or a shaver, but with no alternative and his hair like an untrimmed hedge, he relented and let me at it. Sitting on a small stool in the bathroom, he squirmed and complained as I attempted to negotiate the shaver, its length settings and his thick hair. Starting off with a number 1 at the neckline turned out to be a mistake, but as the haircut progressed it seemed to improve and he conceeded that it was actually a pretty good job in the end, which I agree with. It also beats the last one, which was in Sáo Tome at a local barber shop. That was an experience which included a shaver set on number 2, a very shabby, dirty shop, a crowd bantering in Portuguese and a barber who looked as nervous as I felt this afternoon, in his case at the prospect of cutting non-ethnic hair! Dispite Mark exclaiming, "I'm getting that same feeling that I do when I'm a passenger and you're driving", at some point during my trim, I reckon he'll opt for me next time and not the local barber's dirty shears!