I don’t know if you know this or not – if you’ve ever seen me in person, signs point to yes – but I cut my own hair. This is something I started doing in high school, and the habit kind of stuck. My reasons for not going to a proper stylist are varied and have evolved over time.

When I was a younger lass, every time I went to the salon/hair cuttin’ place the person with the shears always wanted to cut all my hair off. There is a strong disdain for long hair among the people who are paid to cut it, yet those same people tend to wear their hair long. I think it’s a power thing. And I wasn’t always as, uh, forceful with my decisions as I am now, so there were times when I ended up with much shorter hair than my taste/lifestyle dictated. So, rather than fight that battle, I continued to cut my hair through my young adulthood.

Then I found out that one of my cute bar regulars cut hair for a living. I assumed he was gay because, obviously, he cut hair. So I started going to him. Ended up – he wasn’t gay at all. He had a wife and a kid. And he started getting way too friendly while I was in the chair. Like reaching into the top (front) of my shirt to “sweep away” the stray hairs (that had fallen from my head – they were NOT growing out of my chest) (cheeky bastards). He always gave me a good hair cut, but I was vaguely creeped out by the touching. Even though he was cute. So I quit going to his salon and returned to my bathroom and crappy kitchen scissors.

Once I started working in an office with a bunch of adults, I tried again to do the “professional” thing. I’d come into my own as far as standing my ground, so hair stylists were no longer able to remove a foot of my hair at once. In fact, I’d gotten so stringent about things, they were barely able to do more than trim a couple of inches off. Why pay $50 or more to have someone trim your hair? Back to the bathroom I went.

I mention all of this because I had a scary experience this morning. In my bathroom. I decided I needed to take a good two or three inches off my locks. So I did. Then I grabbed a mirror and looked at the back to see how it looked. It was crooked, slanting to one side. So I tried to fix it. Then it was crooked/slanting to the other side. The reason this scared me is because I did this to a Barbie when I was a kid, and she ended up with a buzz cut. I could never get the bottom of her hair even, so I kept cutting and cutting. And cutting. And cutting. That didn’t happen this morning. Though, in total, I may have taken three or four inches off, I think it’s pretty much even. I never look at the back of my head anyway, so unless some jackass points it out, I’ll never know the difference. Oh, and it’s still long by most people’s definition of the word, so I haven’t lost my power or anything.

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