Hair Apparent or Shear Madness

My hair mania started at the tender age of three. My mother and grandmother were called out of town to attend a funeral, leaving my dad in sole posession of my brother and myself. Apparently I didn't feel that all of my needs were being met, and felt compelled to apply a pair of safety scissors to my bangs. I only wish I'd had a camera to capture my mother's response when, upon meeting her at the Pittsburgh Airport, I doffed the ballcap my dad had plunked on my head (praying to have the "do" go unnoticed) and proudly showed mom my handiwork.

The next case of happy-hands cropped up in fall of my senior year of high school. I'd been DYING to get my hair cut in (what I perceived to be) the ultra-chic asymmetrical do... short on one side, with the long mysterious swoop of bangs that could swing a la Veronica Lake over downcast eyes. I'd begged my mother to let me get it done, and she told me that as long as I waited until AFTER I had my senior pictures taken I could do as I liked-- with the codicil that I needed to let it grow again in the spring before graduation. Fifteen years later I still shake my head as I page through my senior yearbook and look at the mind boggling collection of do's I was captured sporting.

The years that followed were dotted with countless color errors. NOTE: If the color on the box says Sahara Sunset (or anything combined with the word Sunset)-- RUN AWAY. Ronald McDonald would have been so proud-- likewise would have Raggedy Ann & Andy. I eventually settled on Light Golden Reddish Topaz. One friend later confessed that she secretly called me Heat Miser during those years (the character in the Bass-Rankin special with the flame red hair). I've never stopped trimming at my own hair, and except for frosting every few months, I haven't colored for over 10 years. And it only took one run-in with a self-administered home perm to tamp down my follicle fascination.

But the number of friends who have asked me trim their hair is boggling. Before I agree to trim so much as their bangs I always remind them: 1) I am NOT a trained professional, 2) I cannot guarantee that they will like the finished product 3) Promise me you will still love me when I'm done (hate the crime, not the criminal). The latest three victims all fell under my blade this past weekend. On Saturday evening I went with NJ (Neighbor John) to visit his step-sister (he was there to fix the AC unit; I was there to gossip). Halfway through the evening I was telling Beth about nearly having my hair-trimming scissors taken from me prior to a recent flight. Her eyes lit up and she said, "You do hair???" I mumbled something about yes I "cut" hair but made certain to explain that I had NO credential behind me other than 16 years of trial and error to recommend me. Minutes later I was being towed down to the basement laundry room "where it's cooler" and staring dumbly at Beth's backside as she leaned herself over the laundry tub and shampooed her hair. It was only then that I saw IT... the portable black pneumatic salon chair that lives in a darkened corner by the furnace. "I used to make extra money with this when the kids were small," said Beth. Only then did she tell me that she actually has her hair-dresser's license and hadn't let a non-professional trim her hair for 15 years. After she draped the cape and settled in, I began prattling on in my best pseudo-stylist fashion, discussing inane subjects ranging from church to gardening to Monty Python. I was desperate. I ended up removing the requested 2 inches (more or less), and if she truly was horrified she hid it with aplomb because she gave every gracious indication that she appreciated my efforts & hugged me in thanks.

The very next day I found NJ and myself dropping in on Mother Melonie and her tribe of beauty queens for some socializing. By dinner time three out of six girls had somehow managed to develop werewolf-like snarls in the back of their precious heads of hair & we were at a loss to get the dreadlocks out... Before I could even think twice we were lining up children and giving trims. Sweet Sara has to-die-for curls (a blessing & a curse), so I knew that if she wiggled too much (she IS 8 after all), most major cat-steps would blend away. Hers was also the longest & thickest mane I've ever removed to-date. But Miss Anna Banana was a different story. She's a wiggle-fish of the first water-- on top of being wa-a-a-ay bedtime cranky at the time-- so I can almost assure you Mel is reading this and saying, "Then why the **** did you agree to cut my child's hair if you knew we were doomed to failure???" Well, Anna has a pout that is rivaled only by that of her 3-year old baby sister, and I had to make the decision between A) Anna tears because I refused to trim her hair RIGHT NOW (her words), and B) potentially removing one of her sweet ears in an attempt to make her happy. (See, Mel... John and I really sneaked out the door to prevent you from killing me!)