“Well?” came the question from over my right shoulder.
I turned. Tracey was standing in the door posing sexily in a way which always makes me chuckle for the cheeky audacity of this wonderful woman.
“Hey, you’re home,” I said.
Then I remembered something really important and I forced my eyes to stray north of her face instead of the usual south.
“Your hair looks great,” I enthused, not really taking it in but knowing the lines. To be honest it appeared much the same as it did when she left. A little neater, perhaps? Doesn’t really matter, so long as Tracey thinks she’s rocking it. “She’s done a fantastic job. Makes you look even younger. It’s sexxy. Love the cut. Love the style. Love the colour.”
You don’t remain happily married for almost sixteen years without taking your responsibility to both acknowledge and say nice things after trips to the hairdresser. I know this. I live by it. It’s my creed.
So when Tracey’s face went from flirty to frowny I knew I’d stuffed up. My first thought was instead of a haircut she’d had her moustache waxed off. Nope. Still there.
Sensibly, my mouth didn’t think to mention this.
Presumably because she doesn’t like to see critters suffer, Tracey quickly put me out of my misery. My original conclusion was right: she’d had her hair done. But I was also almost unforgivably wrong:
“I didn’t put a colour in this time. It’s the same colour as when I left.”
But again, sixteen years of husbanding experience counts for something.
“Good thing too,” I told her. “Doesn’t change what I said – I love the colour. I’m glad you didn’t change it. You look beautiful.”
For the save!
Raising a family on little more than laughs