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There is a reason I never became a hairdresser. Or a barber for that matter. I’d describe it as a complete lack of aptitude. And I am totally self-aware. Always have been. I remember when I was a teenager and my Aunty Jan Jan asked me to trim her perfectly straight hair. Just a bit off the ends, she said. Just a straight line, she said. I refused to do it. She was pretty pissed off but I reckon her mood would have crossed over to murderous if I’d gone through with it.
The only time I’m allowed or even dare cut hair, is emergency work on the dogs. I’m often called upon to trim hair from around the face and eyes, for instance. And the feet.
When we first came to Sweden, I got some clippers and gave that a go. Big mistake. These days I limit myself to scissors.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing about my lack of hair cutting ability is because they were required today. Poor Freya was not looked her best. Apart from the main part of her hair sticking out from her body like a neglected sheep, there was also her mouth and chin that were black with old food and saliva.
She was not a pretty sight.
So, after lunch (which she ate today, following the usual pill swallowing struggle) I attacked her with the scissors then dumped her in the bath for a bit of a lather up.
She behaved like normal – she hated it from start to finish. But I persisted and, by the end of the day, she was sporting a classic Gaz hack.
As for me, as well as wielding scissors, I spent a very productive morning writing in the stuga. Looks like the new writing system just might work.
And I really should mention the rain. I notice that this time last year we were bathed in sunshine. Well, this year, it rained for most of the day.
