Last night my Pete dyed my hair for me.
I used to get it done at the hair dressers, but it was costing over $150, then they would want to see me again six weeks later. When I thought about it, that works out to be $25 per week!!! I was spending that amount on petrol each week and thought it was expensive. So I decided that I would just buy the supermarket hair dyes that are about $15-$20 and let my Pete dye it for me.
My Pete is very particular and very focussed on details. When we painted our house he used an artists’ brush to finish all the edges. He is an absolute perfectionist and thinks nothing of spending seven hours on one wall. He may not be speedy, but I know the job will be finished to exacting standards. I knew that he would not do a dodgy dying job on my hair. When I go to have a hair cut the hairdresser always comments on the great job that he has done.
Part of the fun of having him do my hair has always been the side show that he puts on. The particular brand of dye that I buy supplies a pair of gloves. These gloves are too small for my Pete’s man-hands. He always has a rant about them. It is hilarious.
“Who has hands this small? These gloves are made for pre-pubescent girls! How am I supposed to put these on? F@#*!” (That last comment is the point where his giant thumb tears through the plastic glove.)
Of course I offer him my sympathies, I need my hair dyed after all, but inside I am chuckling to myself. It is one of the primary reasons that I ask him to dye my hair.
Yesterday we opened the box of dye and discovered that a new type of plastic glove has been packaged. A large plastic glove. One that fits a man-hand.
“Well. Look at this. A glove that finally fits. Isn’t that great, now I won’t tear through it.”
Quite frankly I was disappointed – a nice hair job, but no show.
A fabulous song about hair dying.