I’ve always believed that cutting hair looks easy. Just a few snips here, a little trim there, and voila!
How hard could it be?
...Turns out...very.
And I am a repeat offender when it comes to ruining bangs.
Exhibit A: My Little Sister
I was about five years old, and my younger sister was pleading with my mom for a haircut. My mom was busy working in the bathroom – lucky me. I figured the right thing for an elder daughter to do was to support my hard-working, devoted mother.
She clearly needed me.
So, I snagged the scissors from their resting place in the kitchen, lured my sister into my closet, and reassured her that I knew what I was doing. (I did not.)
This was an amazing opportunity for me to unlock my potential in the hairstyling business. It was the 80s, and I loved the smell of my mom's perm. The thought of crisp scissors was satisfying.
Before that was even a thing the kids said.
I cut a line from her bangs straight back to the middle of her head, clean to the scalp.
Not as easy as I imagined.
Did I mention this was the night before picture day?
Those were memorable pictures.
Exhibit B: My Daughter
Fast forward a couple of decades. My daughter was about six and desperately wanted bangs. I wasn’t convinced bangs were the look for her, so I said "no" and went back to what I was doing.
A few minutes later, she strutted by me, proudly flipping her new “bangs" that framed her ears.
My face must have said it all, because without me saying a word, she burst into tears.
She went from proud to distraught in seconds. Embracing my duty as the mom, I guided her back to the bathroom to “fix it.”
"Fixing It"
Again, confident that this couldn't be too difficult. I snagged the same kitchen scissors she had used herself and commenced to "fixing it."
I'd been watching stylists do my own hair for years by the time my daughter needed haircuts. I had to be better than I was 30 years prior.
Couldn't be hard.
By the end, she was rocking what I'd call a "choppy mullet."
And no, that wasn't the style in her kindergarten class.
I tried everything I could think of: barrettes, tiny ponytails, creative parts, but there was no hiding it.
The poor kid had a mullet.
After a couple of weeks of painful grow-out, I finally surrendered and took her to the salon.
The Verdict
The stylist took one look and asked, “Oh! Who cut your hair?”
Before my daughter could rat me out, I jumped in: “She did.”
Technically true. She started it. I just…finished it.
Lesson Learned?
Growth is a journey.
Sometimes that journey includes accidentally giving two separate loved ones accidental mullets.
If you’re unsure whether you’re qualified to cut hair, consider this your sign:
You’re probably not.
Protect the children. Phone a friend. Preferably one with a license.