My dad had definite opinions about the length of my hair, even a small trim elicited a bad reaction. By eighth grade it was so long, I could almost sit on it. I was ready for a change.
My friend, Stephanie, conspired with me, "Lunch period in the locker room."
We went to the office, and borrowed a large pair of scissors from the secretary; sucessfully skirting around our reason for needing them.
We ran to the locker room, where I could see the news had spread. Stephanie was going to cut my hair, and 100 girls were crammed into the small, hot room waiting to see it. Tonya stood by the door as a lookout, "Shhhhhhhh! If a teacher walks in, we'll all get in trouble."
I sat on a stool someone had placed in the middle of the room.
"Are you sure?" Stephanie asked, looking nervous. Breath held, I nodded.
She pulled a comb out of her pocket, and started working it through my long, curly hair.
I heard her take a deep breath, and then...
Cruuuuuunch!
The scissors sliced through the first section of hair.
When Stephanie finished, applause broke out across the room. My hair was above my shoulders, and it felt so....
short!
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I called my mom at work, and told her quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, "Stephanie's mom is a hairstylist, so at lunch I let Stephanie cut my hair. It's short, above my shoulders. It looks great!"
"You cut....you did
what?" she whisper-yelled. In the background I heard, "Your face is all red. Put your head between your knees! Don't faint!"
A few minutes later, "Stephanie's mom is a hairstylist, did she bring scissors to school to cut your hair?"
"We borrowed scissors from the secretary."
"Office scissors? You let someone take dull office scissors, that cut paper all day, and hack away at your hair with them? What, you couldn't find any hedge loppers to use?"
When my mom came home, and saw my hair, she loved it.
Then my dad came home. One look at me, and he freaked out! Yelling at my mom, until he realized she had no part in it.
Then he turned toward me. Silence.
Complete silence.
He didn't speak to me for two weeks.
Hair says a lot about us. About who we are or who we want to be, or maybe just who our friends are.
This week we’d like you to write a piece about hair. It can be about you or one of your characters where hair figures prominently.
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Story side-note: During the phone conversation with my mom, those office scissors were the detail she fixated on the most. To this day, whenever she tells someone this story, she makes a huge deal out of the office scissors (and I never miss an opportunity to tease her about hacking at things with hedge loppers).
Do you have a great haircut story? I want to hear it!
