This week, I found out what it felt like to hold a man’s life in my hands. The air in the room felt tense, a thick silence while I contemplated what to do, and how to do it. The silver instruments in my hands felt heavy with the weight of responsibility. They say the first cut is the hardest; that moment when you pass the threshold of preparation and planning to irreversible action.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I snipped the first lock of my husband’s hair.
I’ve been putting off this task for a long, long time. We’ve borrowed the same set of clippers from our neighbours three times now and have had to hand them back before I could muster up the courage to give it a go.
It’s been two and a half years since his last haircut - the haircut he got for our wedding, if you’ll believe it. And in those 30 or so months, his hair has tumbled down past his shoulders and towards the middle of his back in a luscious, thick mane. The kind of hair I would pay good money to have.
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He didn’t plan for it to be this long. There are, of course, no hairdressers on the Isle of Rum, and mainland trips are so crammed with family visits and shopping that it’s hard to justify taking the time to nip to a barbers. So he let it grow, and grow. And really, is there a better place to try out a new hairstyle than a remote island where hats are the norm and people are scarce?
This week, though, it was time for a change. Our one-year-old finds long hair fascinating, and although I enjoyed splitting his attention between both our heads, a thorough yank had my husband pulling a chair to the middle of the room, handing me the clippers and sitting patiently while I pulled up a ‘how to’ video online.
In Glasgow, I would see my hairdresser every five weeks, and spend hours sitting on the leather chair chatting about everything and anything while my hair became blonder and blonder. It was a trip I looked forward to; where once I would have dreaded the forced conversation over the roar of the hairdryers, I now craved the time spent in front of the mirror, talking about dates and weddings and restaurants. I have a newfound respect for her now. How on earth do hairdressers manage to talk so much while cutting hair?
As I’m standing behind my husband, my hands are slightly sweating. I’ve chopped off so much hair that I can’t be sure if that pile on the floor is a stray brown cat or a wig. The video is now instructing me to attach the number three guard to the clippers, and start working up the back - so far, so good. It’s a satisfying job, and the hair comes away easily. Too easily.
When I hit the crown, it starts to go a little haywire. I’ve moved on to the number two guard, and I think I’ve buzzed a little too much at the top. It’s gone a bit… fuzzy. It’s in that moment that I realise I haven’t actually looked to the end of this video, and have no idea what the actual haircut is going to look like - I just typed in ‘DIY haircut’ and clicked on the first video I saw. For all I knew, I could be walking blindly into a buzzcut.
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“I can always just wear a hat,” my husband piped up from the chair when he realised I’d gone quieter than I was before. But thankfully, my instincts were right. It was just a regular short back and sides that I was following, and I didn’t have to offer a hat just yet.
I trimmed the fringe, smoothed out the edges around the ears, and even attempted a fade at the back. When I was done, he ran to the closest mirror, and I waited in the other room with bated breath. The perfectionist in me wanted to keep going, to tidy up a loose strand or redo the top section. But an exclamation of delight had me sighing with relief.
He came back into the room grinning, turning his head from side to side so I could admire my handiwork. He was happy. Surprised, too. And I felt a ridiculous swell of pride.
I don’t think I’m quite ready to open Rum’s first hairdressers just yet, though I doubt we’ll leave my husband’s hair to grow for another two and a half years. But I’ll take pride in the knowledge that I’ve picked up yet another skill while living out here. I’ll still leave my own hair to the professionals, though.
Elle Duffy lives and works on the Isle of Rum and writes a weekly diary for The Herald
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