We got our hair cut.
I mean, that's what we did. We all of us went and got our hair cut yesterday. Except Susanne, who usually gets her hair done at the same time but this time she didn't. She did come along though. And Philipp and Caitriona and I all got our hair cut.
The reason for this is complex; partly to do with the sort of military style operation that any family activity requires these days, but also to do with the fact that I don't like getting my hair cut.
On the list of Things I Don't Like Done To Me, getting a hair cut is very high up, just above root canal treatment and only a few places below being sodomised by a longshoreman with a vacuum cleaner. And I had to think about that one.
I don't know why I hate getting my hair cut so much. I think it's the feeling of being interfered with, the inane chatter most hairdressers engage in, and the fact that without my glasses on I sit in a world of vague shapes, feeling completely exposed.
I used to get a friend to cut my hair, but we never seemed to find the time. So now we all traipse along to the hairdresser once every few weeks. Because I hate being there, I usually agree to anything I am asked and usually confirm that whatever they have done to my hair is fine. "That's great, excellent, thanks, does that mean I can go now?" Even if they've shaved off one half of my hair and dyed the other half purple.
And even if it looks good, I know that once it gets washed, it will return to the same shapeless, dull mass it always is, except there will be a bit less than yesterday.
So we go as a family, and when they ask me how I want it, I turn to Susanne and say, "How do I want it?" And she tells them, and they do it.
It's not great, but it works for us.