if i look back at my old school photos from elementary school, it won’t take long for me to find it. there’s that one year that sticks out. it’s the one that documents the physical scars of my childhood in kodachrome clarity. i’ve got my best white turtleneck with snappy apples and 1,2,3 to remind people of my love of fruit and math (ha). a goofy half-smile as i kneel, hands innocently clasped over the felt-like tree stump i’m posed beside . and there, more unsettling than the fake tree, are my bangs.

my mother was a firm believer and ardent practitioner of the home hair cut. why go to a salon or even a barber when there were a perfectly good pair of dull scissors banging around in the junk drawer? ten dollars for a haircut? did my sister and i think we were the rockerfellers?

mother’s stylist’s chair was the toilet seat. i’d wet my bangs and dutifully plop down on the seat praying for a steady hand. with pictures looming the next day, i wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. after eyeballing my hair momentarily, she’d carefully hack off an end piece to test the waters. some more water, a few comb throughs, another hack, the dull metal obediently gnawed away at it’s prey. every once in awhile my fidgeting would earn me an accidental stab in the forehead, compounding my injuries. a little more water, another brush through, a mandatory step back into the hallway to eyeball the progress, and the sound of the scissors chewing through the rest of my hair. all done.

and then the mirror.

well, maybe more tilt of the head, it’s kinda straight.

it’s got more zig than zag this time, so that’s a plus.

don’t worry, it’ll grow out.

unfortunately, not in time for pictures a mere 12 hours away, but at least now i have photographic proof to share with ella when we laugh at what i did last week.

for ella’s first hair cut we actually went to a salon and paid $15 for her to get .25 inches of her bangs trimmed. i was okay with it. but it took almost three hours from start to finish for us to get in, get trimmed, and get out. ridiculous! and it’s not like we’re the rockerfellers.

so while ella’s playing in the tub the other night, i get the bright idea to trim her bangs. they’re getting a little long, and i did it a few weeks ago with decent results. no problem.

so i dig my scissors out, start wetting her hair, comb it out and take a hack. hmmmm. not bad. stop squirming ella! go in for another swipe. comb, comb, wrestle comb back from ella. another hack. whoa. that didn’t look straight. crap! comb, comb, comb, wet, comb. still doesn’t look straight. another hack here, over there, a bit more on the one side. oops! sorry ella, didn’t mean to poke you in the forehead with the scissors. don’t cry!

okay. mommy’s done.

i put her to bed and her hair’s still wet so i can’t tell how bad the damage is. until the next day when i pick her up from daycare. i saw her and immediately start laughing. poor kid. she’s oblivious to her new “textured” look. unfortunately, her teachers aren’t. they want to know what happened to ella. i try not to laugh too hard when explaining myself.

so it runs in the family. and i think i’ve learned my lesson. at least until she’s old enough to sit still on the toilet seat.

if i look back at my old school photos from elementary school, it won’t take long for me to find it. there’s that one year that sticks out. it’s the one that documents the physical scars of my childhood in kodachrome clarity. i’ve got my best white turtleneck with snappy apples and 1,2,3 to remind people of my love of fruit and math (ha). a goofy half-smile as i kneel, hands innocently clasped over the felt-like tree stump i’m posed beside . and there, more unsettling than the fake tree, are my bangs.

my mother was a firm believer and ardent practitioner of the home hair cut. why go to a salon or even a barber when there were a perfectly good pair of dull scissors banging around in the junk drawer? ten dollars for a haircut? did my sister and i think we were the rockerfellers?

mother’s stylist’s chair was the toilet seat. i’d wet my bangs and dutifully plop down on the seat praying for a steady hand. with pictures looming the next day, i wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful. after eyeballing my hair momentarily, she’d carefully hack off an end piece to test the waters. some more water, a few comb throughs, another hack, the dull metal obediently gnawed away at it’s prey. every once in awhile my fidgeting would earn me an accidental stab in the forehead, compounding my injuries. a little more water, another brush through, a mandatory step back into the hallway to eyeball the progress, and the sound of the scissors chewing through the rest of my hair. all done.

and then the mirror.

well, maybe more tilt of the head, it’s kinda straight.

it’s got more zig than zag this time, so that’s a plus.

don’t worry, it’ll grow out.

unfortunately, not in time for pictures a mere 12 hours away, but at least now i have photographic proof to share with ella when we laugh at what i did last week.

for ella’s first hair cut we actually went to a salon and paid $15 for her to get .25 inches of her bangs trimmed. i was okay with it. but it took almost three hours from start to finish for us to get in, get trimmed, and get out. ridiculous! and it’s not like we’re the rockerfellers.

so while ella’s playing in the tub the other night, i get the bright idea to trim her bangs. they’re getting a little long, and i did it a few weeks ago with decent results. no problem.

so i dig my scissors out, start wetting her hair, comb it out and take a hack. hmmmm. not bad. stop squirming ella! go in for another swipe. comb, comb, wrestle comb back from ella. another hack. whoa. that didn’t look straight. crap! comb, comb, comb, wet, comb. still doesn’t look straight. another hack here, over there, a bit more on the one side. oops! sorry ella, didn’t mean to poke you in the forehead with the scissors. don’t cry!

okay. mommy’s done.

i put her to bed and her hair’s still wet so i can’t tell how bad the damage is. until the next day when i pick her up from daycare. i saw her and immediately start laughing. poor kid. she’s oblivious to her new “textured” look. unfortunately, her teachers aren’t. they want to know what happened to ella. i try not to laugh too hard when explaining myself.

so it runs in the family. and i think i’ve learned my lesson. at least until she’s old enough to sit still on the toilet seat.