From Love Chunks to Tough Punk

My husband, always fondly referred to as Love Chunks, is a decent, kind and intelligent man.

He's not vain or selfish and any violence he may have inside him is saved for yelling at the umpires during Crows matches or when setting up flatpack furniture with bent allen keys.

His hair is what we've both referred to as 'low maintenance' and has been pretty well like that since he and I got together. Therefore, he does his own cutting with a set of electric clippers and they've served him well in the past.

On Clipper Day (as it shall henceforth be known), he sets up in the bathroom, standing there clad only in his jocks and gets to work, little pieces of dark hair all over the floor. Several minutes later, I usually get called in to neaten up things around the back of his head and sweep the fluff off the floor as he steps into the shower.

Saturday was Clipper Day and I popped into the bathroom expecting to do my usual task and see my normal beloved, safe-and-nice-looking, neatly-clipped husband in front of me.

Not this day.

According to him, my expression looked a lot like this:














....because Love Chunks had given himself a Number One all over and now looked like this:

After snorting and chuckling so hard the clipped hairs flew all about the room, he said, "Well this is my new look now Kath, so you better get used to it - after all, it's this or total baldness."

I was still too shocked to steady my hands enough to clean up the back of his ---- shocking haircut. "But you look like Russell Crowe in Romper Stomper," I spluttered.

Amidst the echoing amplificiation of my abnormally high-pitched comments, Sapphire ran in. "What's wrong---- DAD! You look so mean!"

"I've got so little hair left, Sapph," he said, "And nobody wants to see anyone pretending to have hair they don't do they?"

Shaken, she nodded silently and backed out of the room, closing the door very gently behind her.
"Er, LC, you've got that really long hair that's growing on the top of your ear. At least pluck that out."

He did. "Funny how the hair on my head seems to have moved into my eyebrows, nose, ears, back and bum, isn't it?"

I thought for a moment, looking at my personal suburban Skinhead standing in front of me; his eyes twinkling in cheeky glee, clearly revelling in the fact that he'd genuinely surprised me.

"Well all I can say is that you'd better be careful in yoga class or the prickles on your head might accidentally velcroe themselves to your fuzzy arse."

My offended march out of the room was lost amongst his hooting laugh.

And no, dear readers, I didn't take a photo.

I can't. I won't.

My beloved SLR should be used for beautiful things, noble things, worthy things. Things like Sapphire and holidays and Milly and nature and chocolate.

And butterflies.














Pretty, pretty butterflies....