Category — Husband

It’s been interesting to read over this post again and see how I’ve gotten more confident that I made the right choice for me. Yeah, I got a haircut my husband really doesn’t like. The world is still spinning after this monumental event!

And — somehow — he has survived the snipping of hair that was not in any way attached to his body. And I have survived his tight-lipped disapproval and his visible hurt that I would actually want to make a choice that displeases him.

Somehow, personal decisions loom larger than they really are, because they’re not really about the haircut. They’re about, “Why won’t you do it my way — don’t you love me?” and “Why do you even ask me to change myself in a way that I don’t like, just to please you — don’t you love ME?” They’re about him feeling his tastes were discounted. They’re about me feeling like a little girl who has to ask permission to change a personal detail about myself. They’re about two people who love each other, trying to keep themselves from digging their heels in too hard.

*That* is what I mean when I say it’s a control issue. It should really only be about controlling yourself, not the other person. He doesn’t control my haircuts. And I learned that I don’t get to control his reactions.

I’m OK with that humbling lesson. Even in the closest, most loving relationships, there are some boundaries. After all, a couple DOES have two entirely separate bodies. Why not let the person who lives in each one make the ultimate decisions for that body, that mind, that set of emotions?

And to be clear, he doesn’t “let” me make choices, and neither do I “let” him. We just make them for ourselves. Roseanne Barr isn’t always a font of wisdom, but I don’t think I could say it better than she did in this quote that is true of either sex: “The thing women have yet to learn is nobody gives you power. You just take it.”

It’s hard to hold onto your personal boundaries — firmly, but without needlessly hurting the other person — when the intrusion comes from someone you love.

A few fellows have asked me in some private emails why I’d NOT want to keep my hair the way my husband likes it. Why wouldn’t I want to give him that gift? (With the implied question, “What kind of wife ARE you?”) And my response is that we both give gifts in a marriage. This wasn’t my time to give one. On this particular point, I decided I needed self-approval more than I needed someone else’s, even my husband’s.

And I totally expect him to love the total package of me, even if he might not like one of the ribbons wrapped around it.

It’s so hard sometimes to explain just why a small issue is one you find important. I have let relatives, friends, and lovers make decisions for me in the past about clothes, makeup, haircuts, career paths, politics, and more. Now … I’m grown up. I’m willing to consider input, sometimes even to deliberately put my own wishes second (or last) as a loving gift to another person. (Giving is a joy too.) But ultimately, I am responsible for making my own choices and accepting their consequences.

Otherwise, who’s living this life?

Technorati Tags: personal responsibility, my husband hates my haircut, boundaries

My husband hates my haircut, and I kind of knew that was gonna happen. Like many men I’ve known – and both of my ex-husbands – he’s always felt rather proprietary about my hair, which both pleases and irks me. I’m pleased when he finds me attractive. But it’s still my hair. My head. You know?

It was just below shoulder length, and now the longest strands just reach the bottom of my ears. I’ve been tired of the old pageboy for a long, long, long time, because it doesn’t look like a definite style on me – just the outgrowth of someone who isn’t taking very good care of herself. Particularly because my hair has just enough of a wave in it that it goes flipping out and curling and frizzing in all directions by midday. Now it’s neater. Before, I was a fat woman with a messy hairdo that ended up tucked behind my ears by midmorning. I felt frumpy every time I looked in the mirror or glanced at other women’s hairstyles. Now I’m a fat woman who looks a lot tidier all day long, even when I first wake up. I’m looking in the mirror and thinking, “Fuck it, I look as good as I can right now.”

Does he look at me and think, “Where’s all the hair that was hiding her double chin?” or “God, she’s gotten old – I can’t believe I haven’t noticed until now.” I don’t know, because he hasn’t said one single word.

It’s been two days and he hasn’t said a thing. And it’s not that he hasn’t noticed. He’s the man who notices if I change my fingernail polish, use dark brown eyeliner instead of light brown, or get a run in my almost-invisible nude pantyhose. And he’s stood behind me, sat beside me, walked around me, looked directly at me, and leaned in to kiss me hello, goodbye, and good night. He was shoulder to shoulder with me at a soccer game yesterday when a friend pointed and squealed, “New haircut? Cuuuuute!” and I twirled my head a bit to let the locks flip around, then I smiled and said thanks.

He’s noticed.

He’s at least gone from being sullen when I got the cut on Friday to being lightly friendly again as of yesterday afternoon. And so have I. Because my feelings and ego are hurt, I started to just freeze him out until he at least acknowledged the hairstyle change, but that’s child’s play – a cowardly way of expressing myself. I will probably tell him what I feel tonight if he hasn’t said something by then.

And you know what? I’m pissed. Really, truly, profoundly pissed. I’m the woman he supposedly wants to take to bed on a regular basis. It’s to his advantage to let me know he thinks I’m pretty. And he’s made his point – that he now sees me as less attractive – and I am fucking bitter about it. Thanks for boosting the ol’ confidence about my sexual attractiveness there, hon. I’m 47 and I look it, and I need all the confidence boosters I can get.

I truly don’t expect him to be dishonest if he’s uncomfortable with the social niceties of white lies. I’ve been in the position of either telling white lies or being honest as gently as possible myself. He’s been wanting to get his head closely shaved for many months because he’s suddenly, rapidly going bald right on his front hairline, where he’s developing a little island of hair that drives him to despair. I’m not looking forward to his super-short hairstyle and have told him so. But I’ve also said, “Go ahead and get it done if you want. I’ll still love you, still think you’re my handsome man, even if the haircut isn’t my first choice for you. And besides, I’m kinds of curious to see how it feels – every time I see a guy with one of those plush velour trims, I want to rub his head. You’ll probably have to endure me monkeying around with your hair on a regular basis, that’s all.”)

I know him and don’t expect him to lie to me, especially since we both know what he thinks about this stupid haircut.

He could at least have the inner fortitude and the social grace to look at me, smile, and say, “You look nice today, baby,” because – despite the haircut – I still do. I’m still the same woman under the hair, you know.

To say nothing? That’s hurtful and cowardly.

And I am hurt. To the point where, if he ever does say I look nice again, I will probably not be able to stop myself from tearing up. And that will piss me off WORSE, because I freakin’ hate to cry.

Part of me thinks, “Oh, just shut up – you don’t need his approval. No one needs to say anything.” And I’m mad at myself for wanting his approval. But to be perfectly honest, I do need his approval, even if he doesn’t like the choices I’ve made. I still need to know I’m OK for him. And right now I don’t.

And, honey, if you’re reading this and thinking about complimenting me belatedly — just don’t. We should talk instead.

UPDATE: See a follow-up post here, where I’m more comfortable with his haircut disapproval.

Photo credit: ffi

Technorati Tags: white lies, honesty, husband, short haircut

Love is not just in the big investments — buying you a car or paying for your college education. And it’s not just in the “right” answer to questions like, “If both of us were drowning and you could save only one, who would it be?” or in making sweeping declarations of, “I love you so much, I would die for you.”

It’s also in the small, homely gestures. Like the fact that my husband does laundry on his days off and hangs my hand-washed hosiery to dry on the shower door, or how he brings me the paper each morning because he knows I like to read the funnies while I’m doing my makeup. And the fact that I’m dragging my non-morning-person butt out of bed at 4:30 a.m. again to shower and get dressed and be ready to take my daughter to before-school tutoring at 5:45. And that — on my way to an insanely early work day — I’m stopping by the drugstore to pick up some makeup she mentioned needing last night; not that she would remember it by tonight, anyway, but because she asked something reasonable and I can say “Yes.”

And because she’ll feel a warm little spark when she sees the package on the bathroom counter tonight and will know she’s remembered and loved.

What small acts of love have you given and received today? I’d like to know. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy when I see someone’s thoughtfulness for another.

Photo credit: JerryZz

Technorati Tags: thoughtfulness, small acts of love