Haircut Day: Mane Off, Moustache Stays
I am Azmi from Meknes, and I owe someone an apology. Tonight I took the brush, the comb, and the small scissors to Bambi’s magnificent mane, and by the end of the evening the floof was gone while the moustache remained in full glory. Schnauzer mode: activated. This post is my formal apology address to a very handsome rabbit who is also very outraged, delivered with photographic evidence and a pocket full of treats.
My dear Bambi, first, let me say what must be said: you were handsome before, you are handsome now, and the moustache was never in danger. When I picked up the brush this evening, you gave me the look you reserve for betrayals, the long stare over the shoulder that says, how dare you. I dare, my friend, because under that mane I found the beginnings of tight tangles, and tangles left alone become trouble. The mane comes off. The moustache stays. That was the deal, voted unanimously by everyone except you.
Forgive me, second, for the brushing. I know the brush pulls in a way that offends your dignity. I worked in small sections, the way I always do, mapping every mat with my fingers before the scissors came anywhere near your skin. Brush first, mats mapped, then trim: that is my grooming sheet and I follow it without shortcuts. You grumbled through the whole thing, shifting your weight and flicking your ears, but you stayed. Staying, from you, is a gift, and I counted every minute of it. I keep notes on sessions like this in my grooming notes and brushing log, and tonight earned a long entry.
Forgive me, third, for the camera flash of it all. Photo before, during, after: the floof archive demands completeness, and you are its most documented resident. You posed in the before shot like a lion, endured the during shot like a martyr, and by the after shot you had discovered the zoomies. Post-cut zoomies confirm approval better than any words. You tore around the rug, skidded into the tunnel, and came back for a treat with your new silhouette bouncing. Outraged throughout, handsome throughout: both things can be true, and tonight both were.
Forgive me, fourth, for the ceremony of the moustache exemption, which I know embarrassed you. I held my hand above those long whiskers and announced to the room that they were protected by unanimous vote, while Belle thumped from the corner as if seconding the motion. You sat very still through the speech, ears up, whiskers forward, accepting the honour with the gravity it deserved. That mane and that moustache deserved their own post long before tonight, and now they have one. When the scissors moved anywhere near your cheeks I switched to the comb alone, lifting and separating instead of cutting, because the exemption is not a joke to me. The moustache is the landmark by which visitors recognize you, and I guard it the way you guard your treat bag.
Forgive me, fourth, for laughing. I tried not to. But when the last of the mane came away and the moustache stood there alone, magnificent and unbothered, you looked like a tiny gentleman who had walked out of an old photograph. I have tracked that mane for months, and readers who followed my month of mane growth photos know how much floof we are talking about. All that length, gone in one evening, and underneath it the same bright eyes, only more visible. Floof grows back. The photos stay. The moustache, exempt by unanimous vote, reigns on.
Payment, my friend, deserves its own paragraph, because a haircut bill settled poorly is a grudge held for weeks. Tonight the fee was paid in three parts: one crunchy piece the moment the brushing ended, one small handful of your usual evening greens after the trimming, and one long unhurried head rub while you sat in the cooling evening air of the room. You accepted the first two with the focus of an accountant and the third with a slow tooth-grind that told me the books were nearly balanced. Easily, with treats: that is the whole answer to how dare I remove the floof. Dignity can be negotiated. The treat bag is the negotiating table.
My promises going forward
- I will brush more often so the next cut is smaller and kinder.
- I will never touch the moustache without a full household referendum.
- I will pay every haircut bill in treats, on time, with interest.
- I will stop laughing at least three seconds sooner next time.
So here is the closing of my apology, signed in loose fur and sealed with a head rub. You forgave me the way you always do: one cautious sniff of my hand, one long grind of the teeth, one flop against my leg that means the outrage has officially expired. The mane will return, my friend. Until then, wear the moustache proudly, accept the compliments of the household, and know that the man with the scissors loves you exactly the same with or without the floof.
Blades near skin stay vet-or-groomer territory in my house, my apology tour covers the look, professionals cover anything sharper.
Next in this chapter…
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