A Reflection on That Time I Let My Husband Cut My Hair

He said he’d watched a tutorial. He said symmetry was a myth fueled by Big Geometry. I laughed. That was my first mistake. My second was passing him the scissors without asking him about his dominant hand. (It was vibes. His hand was vibes.) Snip. He called it edgy. I called it accidentally spiritual— because seeing your own scalp before coffee is a kind of awakening. He apologized by making pancakes in the shape of angels. I joked, You know these look like ghosts. He replied so sincerely, I don’t see it. And that was the moment I knew: this is who I chose. The kind of man who conflates confidence with capability, specters with satiety, and bad haircuts with love. I could have done worse. That bald spot grew over, like a lot of mistakes— as if nothing had happened. But when I hear the snip-snapping of blades testing the air, I still flinch. Just a little. Which is to say, I’m older now, but still not immune to vanity, or apology, or pancakes, especially when they’re fueled by good intentions.