Taking The G to the hairdresser, however, isn't one of them.
It had to be done. She's been just once before - not the happiest of experiences - and her fringe was taking on such mop-like proportions that in recent days she's not been able to see an awful lot.
Time to act. Time to call in the big guns.
So The W (the code should be simple enough to crack) dashed home from work this afternoon to handle the thing that, for one reason or another, I don't do.
It was, of course, a total success, although at one point, I'm told, The G embarked on an ill-advised tongue-based experiment, sticking it out mid-snip, resulting in a large portion of said fringe being deposited on it, much to her surprise.
That apart, no problems encountered, the exercise handled in expert fashion.
Home again, neat and tidy, much, much smarter.
"Hair," she confided in me upon her return. "Gone."
Less hair perhaps, no less mischief, although that perhaps was expecting a little much.
So great job The G and great job The W who, I think it's safe to say, will be handling all future hair-related excursions.
She just does it that much better than me, understandable I suppose considering that when it comes to hair, I can't claim to be an expert.
After all, I don't have an awful lot.