I have been with P for almost eight years. He is amused by “Hair is an entity”, but he’s a typical guy in that he has never once asked me a hair question (hey–that wasn’t a hair question!) I guessed he probably knew I have hair, but beyond that, I couldn’t have guessed. Nearly eight years into what I consider a very good and close relationship, he comes up with….

P: “How do you get your hair like that?”

Me: “Like what?”

P: “Like that…in the back.”

Me: “Thank you, Paul Mitchell–that was helpful. Do you mean the way it’s cut?”

P: “Yeah! Down at the bottom.”

Me: “Ah! How do I get it straight across the bottom?”

P: “Yes.”

Me: “Well, sometimes pruning shears, but mostly I just use scissors.”

P: “You cut it yourself?”

Me: “Yes, and I have for nearly all of my adult life. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve had it professionally cut, and I don’t have to use them all. Most hairdressers suck with curly hair, and stylists cost too much. I know my own hair better than a hairdresser, and I can cut other people’s hair, so I can do a passable job on my own.”

P: “You cut it yourself. Huh!”

I love my husband, and he knows more about me than any other living human being. He can even pick out the conditioner that I use if I remind him to make sure the bottle says “conditioner” and not “shampoo” (they look almost identical). Somehow, though, he did not notice that for nearly eight years, I never once “got my hair done”, mentioned that hairdressers are expensive, or even mused about “trying a new style”. He must have been asleep all of those times I went into the bathroom with my haircutting scissors, a huge hand mirror, pick, comb, clips and a plastic bag, then came out with considerably less ‘fro than I had when I went in. Men.