A few days ago, I gave myself a haircut, and now I’m waiting for someone to say, “Gee, I see you’ve gotten a hold of the scissors again. Someone really needs to hide them from you.”
You cut your own hair? Really? Yes, really. It all started when I became disenchanted with my stylist. You see, at first I really liked her, but then she started taking two and three appointments at the same time, expecting that we had nothing better to do with our time than to wait for her—and gossip. One afternoon following work, I faced this situation. She had a hair color, a perm, and a wash and style scheduled at the same time as my hair cut. Now here we have one stylist and four–count ’em f-o-u-r–clients waiting to be served. Granted, she is one of the few stylists with whom I can get an appointment after five o’clock. But, I was already tired and anxious to get home so I could get supper over, so I politely excused myself saying I had something to do…and I haven’t been back.
I decided to patronize one of those walk-in salons. When I got home with my freshly clipped do, I looked into the mirror and frowned. There were straggling hairs left all over my head. I had to snip several strands to bring them in line with the others. So I said to myself, “Self, you can do this good.” After all, I’d been cutting my husband’s hair for nigh onto forty-eight years now. Yeah, he had to suffer through some not-so-great haircuts, but I never got any reports of bullying by coworkers, or any suicide notes, and after a while I got the hang of it.
I’m all about saving money and an avid D-I-Y-er, so cutting my own hair seemed like a good way to tuck back a few bucks. Now granted cutting someone else’s hair and cutting your own hair are two entirely different things. However, I’d worked myself into a place twixt a rock and a hard spot. I’d either have to shop around for a new stylist—that could take months, go back to the chop shop, or cut it myself. Besides, this wouldn’t cost anything, except maybe a bruise to my vanity. Trust me—those heal.
About a month later, I got brave enough to give it a try. If I do say so, it wasn’t too bad—at least as good as the last one I’d had done at the drive-thru joint. After a few minor repairs, it was passable. No one knew if I didn’t tell them.
Over the next year and a half, I continued to shear, as needed, to keep from appearing totally unkempt. After all, I was expected to project a “professional image” at work.
I’ve worn my hair short for many years after I’d become weary of fiddling with long styles. This time it is short. I mean really, really short. I could spike it, if I’d add super-duper-cement-hold styling gel. But then, I’d always given a slightly sideways glance to dyed-spiked-haired grandmothers thinking “Who are you kidding? That really doesn’t make you any look younger, Granny. Puhleese!”
Now, look at me. No, don’t. I don’t plan on leaving the house for at least two weeks.
Or maybe I could buy a wig…I kinda like the one with the red streak, don’t you?