Now, for the uninitiated among you – basically all us blokes – for your beloved, simply finding a hairdresser is akin to all their Christmases coming at once.
Finding one that actually understands what they want up top is like the icing on the cake, or the second helping of pavlova, if we follow the Christmas theme.
Even better if the Chosen One is prepared to put in the effort and transform the pesky tresses into something that will go down well without upstaging the bride at the wedding on Saturday and yet still be the envy of the girls at pilates on Monday.
Think of it like this.
Us blokes are happy when they pick an All Blacks team with a solid chunk of experience which looks good on paper. We practically wet ourselves when that same team throws up a couple of try-scoring stars and we beat, well, anybody by a cricket score. Get my drift?
Anyway.
Recently, Mrs P and the Boomerang Child began the process of getting ready for the wedding we are going to in mid-December.
Naturally, this involves a sequence of events, a pathway if you like, which is well-trodden.
Firstly, they looked in their respective wardrobes and, even though they couldn’t see the back of it for existing clothing, decided they had nothing to wear.
It was a similar case with the shoes.
I was actually on the phone to Builder Boy, the partner of the Boomerang Child, who was on the phone to her mother while searching the depths of the said wardrobe, when the shoe issue came up.
I can say with some pride right now that I predicted neither party would be able to find anything.
I think the term “stunned silence” perfectly describes Builder Boy as my prediction came true to a T.
And as if the perceived lack of clothing and shoes wasn’t enough, both Mrs P and the Boomerang Child also had hair problems.
Now, I myself have had hair problems for a number of years. But while mine is essentially down to the fact I don’t really have enough to cover even a freckle, the issue for our girls is that they have plenty, but nobody to help them whip it into shape for special occasions.
Their previous “lock”-smith – see what I did there? - had moved away, so they were a bit stuck.
As luck would have it, Mrs P had been put on to a new hairdresser whom, she was told, was very good.
The information had been passed down through the ranks of the secret organisation women belong to which recommends such individuals as hairdressers and beauticians.
Us blokes don’t have anything similar. We just go to the barber down the road who has been there for years because, well, we’ve always just gone there and they have a lot of good sports magazines and beer mats and coasters on the wall. And most likely, our fathers and grandfathers before us went there too.
I distinctly recall arriving in good old NZ nearly 50 years ago as a trendy youngster with flowing locks and all the modern gear to go with it.
In the little South Island town I was to call home for a while, there were two barbers. Both had been there since scissors were invented, I think.
If you went to the one at one end of town, regarded by locals as the slightly less desirable end, you got a common old bowl cut. If you went to the other one, you got something more modern but which still made you look like Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen with the severe straight fringe.
It didn’t seem to matter, though, because all the other guys in town looked the same. Bowl or Cleopatra.
But I digress.
Back at our place, as I say, Mrs P has been put on to a new hairdresser by the Sisterhood after her last one left town.
She’s been for an audition - or rather, the new hairdresser has - and is well pleased with the result. I have to say, what appears to me to be nothing more than a trim, if I’m honest, certainly makes my hottie look even warmer - he says with a smile.
Such is the delight of Mrs P, she’s organised for the Boomerang Child to have her hair done for the wedding too. Apparently, the Bank of Mum and Dad will be footing the bill. The managing director informed me as much.
As I digested that little bit of detail, I casually enquired why one would go twice in short order. For a cut before a cut, if you like.
The look I got suggested I knew nothing whatsoever about women’s hair and the importance of a test run with the right hairdresser so it would “be right on the night”.
I knew there was little point in further discussion when I casually mentioned finding a new hairdresser was not really up there with, say, the formation of a new Government to tackle the cost of living crisis.
As Mrs P blissfully toyed with her newly trimmed hair in the mirror, she put it all in perspective for me.
“Oh, it’s far more important than that,” she said.
