"Just a trim, baby. You need it. You look like you're trying to grow out a mullet right now."

Well, Art is absolutely appalled at that. So he sits down obediently at the kitchen table, hands fiddling in his lap as you drape a tower haphazardly around his shoulders. Who needs a barber when your spouse is handy with a pair of scissors?

The pair of you chat idly as you spray cold water into his hair, chiding lightly about him being such a baby and ignoring the huff he lets out under his breath. His curls are so thick it takes a while for you to soak them, and then you're carding your fingers through them to inspect the length. God, his hair has gotten awfully long. You give a few playful tugs, smirking to yourself about the way your husband—a grown man and a soon-to-be legendary tennis player—whines like a puppy over a few pulls to his overgrown locks.

He has full faith in you when you pick up the scissors. He doesn't even need a mirror anymore; he's content to let you do your thing while he just enjoys the feeling of you running your hands through his tresses, your voice soft in his ear while you talk about everything and nothing. He can hear the sound of the scissors snipping with each section you move through, blonde hair falling onto the towel and the floor.

But as you're inspecting the new cut—just a trim, like you'd promised—you can't help but think how hot it'd look if it were shorter. Less boyish. More mature. He's almost thirty now, after all. He can't be sporting the same hairstyle he had when he met you a decade ago. Art's always eager to please, but you have a feeling he'll complain about this one little thing.

"Hey, Artie?" You hum, like you aren't bracing yourself for rejection.

His eyes are still shut, completely relaxed as he leans back into the kitchen chair. "Yeah, babe?"

"Whaddya think about cutting it a lil' shorter? Like... more grown. Just a bit. It'd be polished for tennis, too. Real aerodynamic." Okay, you're grasping at straws here.

Art visibly bristles at that, eyes snapping open and immediately giving you the stink eye over his shoulder. "Shorter? Shorter?" His frown is so exaggerated it almost makes you want to laugh, but you keep your face neutral. When he sees that you're not budging on your idea, he huffs and turns to look back straight ahead. "How much shorter?"

There he is. Pouting like a little boy. Maybe a trim would get rid of all that sass, too.