Traditions

Whenever Mark gets a new haircut he goes through a certain repertoire. This is not unlike the seven steps of grieving:

1. He looks absolutely horrified when the hairdresser picks up a pair of scissors.
2. When the snipping begins, his concentration increases to a surgical level (probably because he tries to imagine his silky tendrils back into place).
3. He comforts himself with the thought that maybe styling products will return his mass of hair.
4. Bitter disappointment ensues when he realises he got a haircut and his hair is shorter.
5. It is against his nature to say anything negative to anyone, ever, so he forces out a smile and tells his beaming stylist that he loves his new hairstyle and he's always wanted to look like a ten year old child impersonating a mushroom. He then leaves the salon flicking his hair in growing panic that he will spend the rest of his life as fungus.
6. The following seven days are spent in a feverish bid to get his new hairstyle to resemble his old one.
7. Finally he decides that he quite likes his hair.

So when he came home earlier today grumbling about champignons and children because of his new haircut:

I decided to dedicate a blog post to it. Just so I can say "I told you so" when he decides to love it in a week. Yes, I am that petty.

If he breaks tradition, I can always show him the pictures we took before the grand snipping:

Mark, are you listening? Good. I win!