The last time I cut my own hair I was four years old.
I had a fringe then, same as now. I assume that, much like right now, it was my vision being obscured by fuzzy, out-of-focus, black strands of slightly-too-long hair that drove me to give the role of hairdresser a go. Or maybe it was just plan old divilment.
Now I'm in my apartment all by myself. Then I found refuge from my family by quietly shutting myself away from everyone else in the utility room, surrounded by the washing machine, the spin dryer and the freezer.
Now I have the luxury of a mirror. Then I think a scissors and comb were all I brought into my makeshift salon.
Now I'm working with a standard kitchen scissors that certainly wasn't made with hair cutting in mind. At least then I'm nearly sure I’d raided my mam’s dresser for the proper tools and was armed with a hair cutting scissors.
Unfortunately I suspect my brain hadn't fully developed aged four. After doing the deed, I pushed the crudely-cut hair deep into the gap between the washing machine and the dryer, naively confident that hiding the evidence would be enough to ensure my home haircut wouldn't be found out.
Suffice to say it turns out I didn't display an early aptitude for styling. My haphazard new ‘do was noticed and called out for the disaster it was as soon as I bumped into my mam, and a relatively successful rescue mission was launched immediately.
Twenty-eight years later there’s a chance my brain hasn't developed all that much in this area. What I want is a subtle fringe trim. A self-inflicted hatchet job is just as likely.
But like then, I'm feeling just bold enough to do it.
History repeating itself or a lesson well learned? I'll tell you in a five minutes.
