Bangs

Redford, MI, 1989 - When I was about 5 years old, I was visiting my grandma's house when I found a pair of scissors. Nothing dangerous, just those dull-as-marbles tiny scissors you give children to cut construction paper with. It wasn't like I was wielding a sword here. 

Anyhoo, I found this pair of scissors and had a marvelous idea: I could cut my hair. This spark of realization was awe-inspiring. I remember stopping, and thinking of the power I had in my hands, of the secret mission before me. No one could know what I was up to, and the very thought of being able to whack off chunks of hair like the salon lady was intoxicating. 

I remember angling the scissors down and away from my brother and sister, who were busy watching TV, and locking myself in my grandma's bathroom. With eager anticipation, I faced myself in the mirror, bowl-cut and five, grabbed a hunk of hair and worked my little fingers hard with those dull-as-marbles scissors until I had cut that hunk off. 

What a glorious moment. And then...

Knock, knock, knock..."Erin? Are you ok? What are you doing in there?"

Glory is short-lived. 

And so I had the stereotypical conversation of a mischievous five-year old with her concerned mother. 

Mom: "Erin? Are you ok?"

Me: "yeah"

Mom: "What are you doing in there?"

Me: "nothing"

Mom: "Can you please unlock the door?"

Busted. I couldn't disobey a direct order. I unlocked the door, my mom opened it, saw the scissors, saw the hunk of hair, and had a few things to say. 

It wasn't that bad. In fact, I got my picture taken and the hunk of hair was put into my elementary scrapbook. Turns out, it was pretty cute - but all the scissors in my gram's house and my own were put away after the incident. 

Flash Forward to Agoura Hills, CA, 2010. Having decided to move to Sacramento, and having seen Sacramento and hating it, Bob and I are deep in moving and transitioning plans. I'm depressed about leaving LA and moving to ugly, mean Sacramento. It's Saturday, we're knee-high in boxes. Bob goes to the store to get more packing tape.

As comb out my hair, getting ready for the day, I take a look at my 25-year old self in the mirror, and I have a marvelous idea: bangs. I could cut myself some bangs. Now this is a change that I can control. 

I brush out my hair, grab some scissors, eyeball it, and in a matter of 5 cilps, it's done. I have bangs. The only successful hair-cutting I've ever given myself. It's pretty cute. Bob thinks so too.

Now, I haven't always had a good experiencing with self-salon altercations. Some of you may remember, with some degree of fondness, the lesser fashion moments in my life - the skunk strips after a self-highlighting kit, the awful Wilmore haircut, the $7 haircut and the many boxes of hair color, not to mention my one attempt at professional highlights/low lights which made me look like a calico cat attacked my head and died on it. Thankfully, that is all behind us now. 

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