When I was about 12, I had a friend whose mother was a hairdresser. It wasn’t unusual for me to come home with a new do after a visit to her house.
There was one occasion when my mother went on and on about how much she really liked my new look. God knows how but I convinced her I had paid close enough attention to how it had been cut to do the same to her. Can you believe she actually let me go at her with the scissors!
The style I had was short, multiple layers that fluffed around my face. Hers was several different lengths of what looked like a crooked bowl cut, the shortest on the very top of her head half an inch long at most with several patches missing.
At the time my dad was playing in a band. When he came home hours later she was still sitting in the dining room, sobbing in the dark. His first question was what I was still doing up. Then he heard her and asked what happened. I explained and I could tell how hard he was struggling not to laugh but, being a psychologist used to dealing with all sorts of things without reacting, he rapidly got control of himself. He sent me off to bed before going to see how bad it really was. His verdict – even worse than he imagined.
My mother was a teacher, a dedicated one. I think that Monday was the only day I ever remember her not going to school without being seriously sick. In order to fix it, the hairdresser she went to had to cut all of her hair half an inch long and even then she still looked extremely odd. She couldn’t wear the hat she wore at home to school so she spent at least a week fielding questions from her colleagues and ignoring stares and laughter from her students.
Me? Well, I think she might have said a dozen words to me the entire time it took it to grow out enough for her to look presentable again. She never has seen the humor in it although my dad and I started laughing openly about it the following year.
There was one occasion when my mother went on and on about how much she really liked my new look. God knows how but I convinced her I had paid close enough attention to how it had been cut to do the same to her. Can you believe she actually let me go at her with the scissors!
The style I had was short, multiple layers that fluffed around my face. Hers was several different lengths of what looked like a crooked bowl cut, the shortest on the very top of her head half an inch long at most with several patches missing.
At the time my dad was playing in a band. When he came home hours later she was still sitting in the dining room, sobbing in the dark. His first question was what I was still doing up. Then he heard her and asked what happened. I explained and I could tell how hard he was struggling not to laugh but, being a psychologist used to dealing with all sorts of things without reacting, he rapidly got control of himself. He sent me off to bed before going to see how bad it really was. His verdict – even worse than he imagined.
My mother was a teacher, a dedicated one. I think that Monday was the only day I ever remember her not going to school without being seriously sick. In order to fix it, the hairdresser she went to had to cut all of her hair half an inch long and even then she still looked extremely odd. She couldn’t wear the hat she wore at home to school so she spent at least a week fielding questions from her colleagues and ignoring stares and laughter from her students.
Me? Well, I think she might have said a dozen words to me the entire time it took it to grow out enough for her to look presentable again. She never has seen the humor in it although my dad and I started laughing openly about it the following year.
6 comments:
Oh, my. Being responsible for mom's bad hair week...very dangerous;)
I like that you tell us how bad a kid you were - what's next?
Glad you like it. My mom, on the other hand, is not amused. I don't know what's next. It depends on the nature of how she makes me mad next time.
Proof once again that only a professional will ever touch my hair...
My neighbor once cut mine... it was about 1/2 inch long all over. Actually, I kind of liked it. There was a certain freedom in it being so short. And hair grows back out.
How touching to know she had that much faith in you to begin with!
My mom wouldn't let me come at her with a curling iron, much less scissors.
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