Did I ever tell you about the time when I cut my own hair – like three days before Picture Day at school? Oh! Well, it’s a good one, so sit back and enjoy!
It was a Saturday. One of those nice, sunny Saturdays in the middle of September or October. The school year was young; I had no homework (but then I was in 3rd grade, and homework in 3rd grade consisted of reading for 15 minutes a day and practicing my multiplication tables, both of which I’m sure I did Friday right after school because I was that sort of girl). I had plans to play with Kari that afternoon, but before I would walk through the field to her house, something very critical had to be dealt with.
“Mom,” I probably whined. “Will you cut my bangs? They’re in my eyes and they’re bugging me.”
“I can’t right now, Lindsay,” she responded, probably not taking her eyes off of whatever it was she was doing. “Can it wait until tonight?”
I probably moaned a No under my breath and sulked away.
I didn’t mean to make my mother regret her words. Honest. But this was something that simply couldn’t wait. How could I possibly enjoy myself at Kari’s house if I couldn’t see anything. And besides, bangs that poke you in the eyes are not a particularly pleasant thing to have to deal with. But all was not lost, especially once I remembered the sharp sewing scissors I had received the Christmas before.
I fished through my sewing basket and retrieved the scissors. They were sharp. I had to be careful. Dangerous things could happen when an 8-year-old is left to her own devices and is clutching a pair of scissors. I knew this. I was careful.
Only once I made the first incision, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I knew I had made a serious mistake. My cut was incredibly crooked, slanting up dangerously high on one side. I froze, then took one of those deep, calming, self-reassuring breaths. I could fix this. And so I tried again.
Oh no! I thought. Crooked again, and this time in the opposite direction! Okay…okay, I could fix this. I skipped the deep breath and went at it, making a series of smaller cuts. But before I knew it, my once long, annoying bangs, were now just ugly. That’s the only word for it: ugly.
What had I done?! I knew my mom would eat me alive once she saw my exposed forehead. I had to confess; there was no way around it. And the sooner the better. Crying uncontrollably, and covering what was left of my poor bangs with my hand, I slipped into my parents bedroom where my mom had been napping.
“Mom….I’m sorry,” I cried and whimpered.
“What is wrong with you, Lindsay?” she asked, annoyed, most likely, with the fact 1) I was crying like a baby and 2) that I wasn’t making a lick of sense.
I moved my hand a little ways from my forehead and cried some more. “What is the matter?” she asked me again. And then she asked me to give her her glasses. She hadn’t seen me and my nearly non-existent bangs! I had to confess all over again!
Mom put her glasses on, took one look in my direction, and screamed. “Lindsay! What have you done?!”
At that point I could do nothing more than fall on the floor in tears, which made my mom even angrier. She never could stomach my crying. She grabbed me by the arm and forced me into the bathroom. Try as she might, she couldn’t possibly undo the damage I had done. When she finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked awful. My bangs were hardly there, they were so short, and what was left of them was all crooked and slanty. My face was red and blotchy from crying and my eyelids were puffy. I was sent to my room for the rest of the day, left to wallow in my own self-inflicted despair until I was called for dinner (which was a humiliating event by itself because I had to face my dad and my brothers). And I guess that it goes without saying that I didn’t play with Kari that day.
My 3rd grade school pictures look awful. But I guess that now I can laugh about it. I’m not so sure if my mom can laugh about it yet. I haven’t wanted to ask her.
Oh, and by the way. Mom confiscated my sewing scissors that day. She’s never given them back.
Moral: When your mom tells you she can’t cut your hair right now, don’t be impatient and do it yourself, because 8-year-olds really can’t be trusted with sewing scissors.
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