The Merits of Sharp Scissors
My hair is the bane of my existence; as a child, it curled and meandered about my head in a tangle until my parents decided that I should become the "pixie cut" poster child. Even this 'do' didn't do...my now short, curly hair frequently took on a life of its own, despite hair spray, bobby pins, and other instruments of torture. My grandma and I joked that I could play Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai, I had such horns. My mother said a woman's hair was her 'crowning glory,' yet I never felt like a princess...none of the fairy tale princesses in the books wore Pixies.
One fateful day when I was about 13, I decided that I would look good with bangs, because bangs were the rage, and at 13, I was indeed a fashion expert. Always one to take immediate action, versus wait for an appointment with a licensed hairdresser, I found my mother's good sewing scissors, and chopped away in the comfort of my bathroom. The results were disastrous, took weeks to grow out, there were tears involved and my mother angrily raised her voice as she tried to correct the uneven, irreversible damage. In the midst of this trauma, I learned a very important lesson in life: if you don't like the way that one, stubborn piece of hair is standing on end, calling for attention, CUT IT! It will grow back! How liberating!
Thus for the last 33 years, I never flinch when it's time to give myself a little haircut. In high school, I was obsessed with cutting my hair into 'Farrah' feathers, which, after taking up my scissors and snipping, stuck out in right angles from my scalp, owing to the fact that my thin, fine hair wasn't Farrah material. Not exactly the look I sought. That's exactly when I began to collect interesting baseball caps. My collection is unparalleled, trust me.
Throughout my life, I've reached for the shears to solve bad hair days resulting from humidity, hormones, or rage. Usually the result is fairly severe, but I'm blessed with fast-growing hair, and since my hair never holds a style in the first place, my friends are used to my antics. Sure, it would have looked better to go to a professional, but, see? I did it myself, and it's passable! It's a conversation starter! Give it a couple of days, you'll forget I ever did anything!
When I married, I believed my husband, who rarely notices anything, would never discover my forays into the exclusive Home Bathroom Hair Salon. I was wrong. As an architect, the man possesses a keen sense of balance and order. Every time I snip my locks, I assault his world, and since I'm left-handed, and have difficulty using scissors to begin with, he insists that my late-night chop sessions are the haircut equivalent to 'Design On a Dime' for blind people.
Trust me, you need a professional.
Yesterday I was innocently getting ready to attend a funeral...the third one in five weeks, but don't go there...and it hit me. I HATED the frizz on my forehead. I looked ridiculous, I could not leave the house with my hair in this state. I mentally rifled through the useless factoids in my brain and realized my next hair appointment was weeks away. Slowly I turned, I saw myself walking through the bedroom, the den, into the kitchen...suddenly I was in front of my bathroom mirror, a pair of sharp scissors in hand, and two inches of my hair was in the sink.
I'll be the first to admit that I caught several people staring at my handiwork as we filed in for the funeral. My husband clicked his tongue and shook his head. But I prevailed! Better to resemble a Cereal Bowl-Head than Moses, I always say. Hey, I did all those funeral-goers a favor...one look at me and you'll forget your troubles!
Anybody know where I can get my scissors sharpened?
