Well, I cut my own bangs the other night. It’s a mistake I’ve made in the past but after a college career full of numerous haircuts from friends and roommates, I promised myself only professional haircuts from there on out. But Thursday night I thought, “Hey, I can do this! They’re so long I’ll just bunch them all together and cut off the bottoms! Easy!” (And eerily reminiscent of the time when I was 15 and I put my hair in a ponytail and then cut the ponytail off. It doesn’t work the way you want it to—unless you wanted Marcia Brady’s hair that came to a point in the back like an arrow showing the way to her butt.)
There’s clearly a reason you have to have a license to cut hair. It’s not easy at all. And you need special scissors, not nail scissors. And even if you are a licensed, talented hair stylist, you probably don’t cut your own hair but instead have someone else do it (also a professional).
But I cut my own bangs and I went to bed feeling pretty satisfied with myself.
When I woke up in the morning, my hair was greasy and matted and looked confusingly wrong. I thought maybe I just needed to comb it, but that didn’t solve the problem. I looked like a little kid that got tired of having bangs and so decided to cut them off up to the hairline. I didn’t have much to work with, but I had to try to even them out at least, so it would look somewhat intentional.
I got the kitchen scissors and attempted a straight line angling up from my right temple to my mid-forehead on the left. It still didn’t look right so I got my razor out of the shower. I stared at it for a minute and then put it away. No way that was going to work, and even I’m smart enough not to razor my own head.
I quit for a while and later on last evening, I went out to Fatburger because I was craving some red meat. While I was waiting in the drive thru, I noticed a Sally Beauty Supply in the parking lot. It seemed like some sort of sign. So after I got my food, I went into Sally’s and looked for professional grade hair scissors. And you know what? Those things are frickin’ expensive! No way was I going to buy $65 scissors—I could have gotten a professional haircut for that much (which I may still have to do).
So I went home and ate my hamburger and then stared at myself in the mirror for a while. It was clear that if I continued cutting my bangs I was going to wind up looking like one of the Barbie’s whose hair I cut in childhood. One of our Barbies (Stewardess Barbie) had a full, voluptuous 80’s perm to go with her smart navy blue work uniform and either my sister Elizabeth or I gave her a hairstyle much like that of model Amber Rose. Except for not at all attractive.
|Amber Rose. Much prettier than Stewardess Barbie post-haircut.|
And finally inspiration struck. I dug around until I found this weird razor I bought from an infomercial years ago that was supposed to be for easily giving your bikini line a dry shave (shudder). I don’t think I ever ended up using it, or if I did it must not have worked. I found it in my bedroom at my folks’ house over Christmas and thought it might be handy for use on my face or nose hairs (and it is!). It’s called Bikini Touch and it looks like this:
|Bikini Touch. A multifunctional tool.|
I found a battery for the Bikini Touch and started cleverly shaving off the bottom part of my bangs so they had more of a blunt edge (a term I learned from my incredibly talented friend, Erin, who is an ACTUAL hair stylist). In the process, I started to shave off a little bit of my left eyebrow, which sucks, but otherwise it looks kind of good. The rest of my hair is another story. And I think my eyebrow will grow back. Of course, I already have an inexplicable bald spot in my right eyebrow, so nothing’s definite.
But seriously, starting now until the end of time or until I get married and let myself go, I will never cut my own hair again. That’s a promise.
And here's a bad picture of my bad haircut, which I'm oddly proud of (the bangs, not the picture--the picture is awful).
|I am damn sexy. And naturally blurry.|
*Keanu Reeves as Todd in Parenthood. One of his and Ron Howard's finest films. (Ron Howard, 1989).