You guys probably have realized at this point that I have super short hair. I feel like my default mode is short hair. I think it looks better on me. It has mostly been short for my entire adult life.
Lately I have been growing it out and donating it. It’s kind of a never ending cycle of that awkward growing out phase. Which is fine by me, because I am never pleased with my hair. If I am looking in a mirror, know that I am spending 99% of that time hating on my hair.
At the same time, I can only imagine my shitty hair is better than being bald. And since I am not doing anything useful with it, I donate it. It takes about two years to grow out and then I chop it all off and start all over again.
I used to cut my own hair for many years. I really don’t like people touching me. And I am incredibly awkward at banal chit chat. And I really don’t like having someone massaging my scalp with their cleavage in my face unless we are dating. Plus, I am pretty cheap and don’t really care if I give myself a shitty haircut.
Which I did. Many, many times. But let me tell you about this one time…
It was about 5 years ago. I was 25 and in the worst relationship of my entire life. I had shoulder length hair and was so bored with it. I was unhappy with a lot of things, but I stupidly thought a new hairdo would resolve the issues I was having.
He was off at the gym when I took a pair of scissors to my head. Now, keep in mind, I had been cutting my own hair for YEARS. I was self taught. A few YouTube videos and a hand mirror were all you really needed. And the courage to not give a shit if you looked awful.
I didn’t have special hair cutting scissors, which I do now. These were just normal craft scissors. Growing up in a crafting family with a mother that made clothing, I respected scissors. I knew that there were rules. Scissor rules.
Only buy Fiskars. They are the best.
Pinking shears are not to be touched ever. Don’t even fucking think about touching them!
Scissors can only cut one thing. There are yarn scissors, paper scissors, fabric scissors. Crossing materials will seriously jack up your scissors, so don’t do it.
I still live by the scissor rules. I have a pair of pinking shears and I don’t even let myself touch them.
So, I was standing in the bathroom with a hand mirror and my Fiskars. And I started cutting. The secret to giving yourself a cute haircut is patience. You can always cut off more, but you can’t add what you cut off.
As you all know by now, I have very little patience. I started out in the front going slow. I wanted some adorable short pixie cut. And I think short hair suits me.
But the longer it took the less patient I got. I started grabbing chunks and cutting. I knew what I was doing. I had done it a dozen times.
When I was finished I was really impressed with myself. I looked fucking adorable. And I don’t say that about myself often.
T came home and I ran out to show him my mad hair cutting skills. I had put a cute headband on and I just felt adorable. I twirled for him.
“Wait a minute. Turn around again.” His voice sounded strange. Serious.
I felt a sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I turned.
“Did you use a mirror?” He asked.
“Um, I think you cut it too short. Here.” He touched my head. He was literally touching my head.
I had cut my hair too short in one spot. There was a quarter sized bald spot right in the back of my head. I ran into the bathroom and got up on the counter and looked again. Yep. There it was.
I don’t know how I had missed it. But now it was all I could see. That giant glaring mistake ruining my adorable haircut and my cuteness.
The next day at work I wore a baseball hat. There was only a skeleton crew and one of the people working, M, was a new guy I had befriended. I sat down next to him and tried to play it cool. I asked him how he was doing.
He burst into tears and told me that he and his wife had decided to get a divorce. You’d think I’d be better at handling emotional outbursts based on the number of times I have them. But I’m not.
I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Should I hug him? Pat his hand? Tell him that his wife was a total skanky bitch? I really didn’t know.
I was an awkward deer caught in the headlights of human emotional interaction.
I panicked and yanked my hat off. “I gave myself a haircut last night and fucked it up so bad that I look mentally challenged or deranged!”
He looked at me silently for about 10 seconds and then started laughing his ass off.
We had a few more serious talks about his divorce after that, but any time he seemed like he was going to cry I would just point out my weird patchy bald spot that was trying to fill in. And we would both crack up all over again.