The day I offered to cut my partner’s hair marked our first fight. It’s still going

Every couple has their own private language. They have their own shorthand, their own in-jokes, their own furtive looks to convey private messages, their own set of emojis and memes that would baffle anyone else. (My partner and I have a running gag about penguins and pandas that has kept us going for several years now.)

And every couple, no matter how content and fulfilled, has a conflict, minor or major, that gets replayed – over and over. An argument that is perfected and repeated, but never resolved.

Now, I have a very harmonious relationship with my partner. We have had occasional misunderstandings but never raised our voices to each other, or come close to any sort of fight.

For some background, my partner’s love language is acts of service. He brings me cups of tea as I sit on the couch, fixes things around the house, and arranges all our travel. My love language is words of affirmation, so I tell him he’s wonderful, and settle back down on the couch to drink my tea.

Occasionally, however, I feel guilty that he does so much for me, and I do little more than dazzle him with my scintillating personality. So, a couple of years ago, I decided it was time for me to do something nice for him, too.

This was not a good idea. If I could go back in time and talk to my naive self, I’d advise her to do something else instead. Make muffins, for example. Arrange a weekend away. Anything but take out the electric trimmer.

“Are you sure?” my partner asked. “I don’t want to have to shave my head if you get it wrong.”

“Definitely! But you’d look great bald,” I said, which did not seem to reassure him at all.

He remained sceptical, but I was determined to be a good and generous partner. And, so, when the time came for a trip to the barber, we lay a towel down in the bathroom and I took out the trimmer.

The initial session went well. As a novice home barber, I was keen to please. My partner told me what number combs to use, in what order to use them, and how to section off his hair. He seemed genuinely grateful for my help, and I was genuinely pleased to be of service.

It wasn’t until the second time, and the third time, and every subsequent time, that the bathroom haircut morphed into The Fight.

Here’s how it unfolds. We go into the bathroom. My partner takes out the trimmer and sets out the attachments. He sits on the edge of the bath. I pick up the trimmer and switch it on.

Now, I’ve done this before. I have never messed it up. Sure, I once accidentally left a tiny tail at the back of his head, and another time the left side was a centimetre or so shor