This morning, I did something rather terrifying. I let my boyfriend cut my hair.
Don't get me wrong, Ben is absolutely amazing in many different ways - but let's just say I never really had him pegged as someone I'd trust armed with scissors anywhere near the vicinity of my scalp. However, things were getting rather desperate. My hair was beyond the repair of my usual 'smother in Argan oil' tactic, and it's length meant it would just find it's way onto everything, and everywhere, all time time. Also it was giving me headaches, which is never brilliant.
So, at least part of it had to go, and my usual distrust of hairdressers coupled with the fact that I wouldn't in an english-speaking country for another month meant I had to resort to desperate tactics, and allow Ben to play hairdresser. Clearly this was an absolutely terrifying concept. Particularly as he spent a solid 10 minutes running around with the scissors pretending to 'accidentally' cut it into a bob - which was by no means appreciated. A somewhat nerve-wrackingg 15 minutes later and I (surprisingly) have a haircut I'm actually very pleased with, and somewhat excited about. I've been lusting after very blunt, full ends for a while now, and I'm amazed to say Ben's work actually fits the bill. Needless to say, ladies, maybe we should start reconsidering our boyfriends artistic capabilities after all.
Or, you know, be a little more organised and remember to get a haircut in a country where their national language is English .