This morning the sound of my hubby’s electric beard-trimmer was interrupted by a yelp, followed by an exclamation of disgust. “Stupid razor!” Envisioning the guard coming loose and a notch of bare chin in the middle of his goatee, I ventured a question into the ensuing silence with some trepidation. “Honey? What happened?” Another moment of silence, followed by the indignant elucidation.

“This stupid razor took all the dark hairs and only left grey ones!”

Stupid razor indeed.  Though in all fairness, we should cut the thing a little slack considering what it has to work with. Fifty shades of greybeard, that’s my man.

He can still take comfort, however, in a magnificent mane of glossy black hair (a gift of his Hawai’ian heritage, no doubt)–just a few threads of silver there. He asked me recently to show him how to “do a bun” because his hair is getting so long his ponytail felt “untidy.” He’s a little O.C.D. about some things. (Or CDO, as he prefers it–putting the letters in the right order, you know.)

It’s been a few years since either of us paid for a haircut, so when my split ends got out of control I asked him if he could trim the ends for me. “Nothing complicated,” I reassured him; “just about this much off the ends, all the way around.”  He stood behind me with the scissors for a moment, paralyzed with apprehension, before excusing himself and heading out to the shed for the necessary missing tool.

I’m probably the only person I know who has actually had a haircut performed with a level. Did I mention the OCD?

I actually haven’t read the notorious “Fifty Shades of Grey” about which everyone seems to be tittering these days–but then, I haven’t needed a fictional fix, either. Just so long as the sheets are properly straightened first…