Having had the type of Dad my mother needed to plant a bomb under to get any attention, I’m therefore not one of those wives who imagines her fella will notice anything much at all. I don’t *do* hints, I paint huge great banners in bright red (metaphorically of course, though on occasion I have been known to leave notes spelling out my problem blatantly, like “DEAR HUSBAND, I HATE YOUR GUTS. IF YOU DON’T WANT ME TO LEAVE YOU, SORT [BLAH] OUT BY THIS DATE OR ELSE.” (I’m thinking of having stationary printed with these messages already on, with just a space for the problem or issue that needs sorting – reckon I could make a killing! Any takers, laydeez?)
So anyway: yesterday, I had my hair done. Very nice it is too. My hair was looking a bit mental as if it might join some kind of witches’ union, so I had a trim and whilst I was there I thought it might be fun to have a colour slice. Despite this sounding like some kind of rainbow-induced torture, it actually involves having streaks of colour through your hair. I opted for violet and blue since I thought it would be nice to have something a bit racy for Christmas.
PLEASE NOTE: violet and blue are obvious colours! I had also TOLD MY HUSBAND IN ADVANCE I was having my hair done, even reminded him that morning, so he could automatically tell me how fabulous I look when he comes home and I can live in the blatant fantasy that he remembers this type of thing.
Did he? Nooooooooo.
Not even when my son pipes up the moment he comes through the door: “Wow Mum, your hair looks great!”
I taught him well.
The Husband however is in my dungeon I prepared earlier for such occasions.
In other news, my little girl has developed a rather embarrassing habit of making up songs in supermarkets. This morning’s went like this:
“One, two, three
What the hell is that
Upon your knee??”
I suppose I should be grateful she appreciates the importance of good metering and it wasn’t “WTF is that upon your knee?” Sigh.