The Haircut

"Oops."
"Uh-oh."
"Oh, that isn't good."
"Oh, your hairline goes that way."
"@#$%%^$#@#$%^&%#$%^!!!"
"OK, maybe if I cut off more over here...?"
"Uhhhhhhh..."
"Say, would you object to a quick fade?"

None of which are good things to hear while someone is giving you a hair cut. And all of which I heard last weekend while I was getting mine cut.

Other than once a year, sometime in summer when I want it really short and looking good, often just before taking a trip so it's maintenance-free, I cut my own hair. Right now I can't lift, much less hold, my left arm high enough to do it. And the hair was getting really really shaggy. So I made a decision. I tried to teach Richard how to cut my hair. After all, he cuts his own.

To be fair, he got the top and most of the sides just right. OK, right enough. That's the part where it stays longer, where you can hold a section between two fingers and cut along the fingers for a straight line. Of course, like everybody else who cuts my hair, he took a wee bit too much off. I do not understand how "remove one third" translates to nearly half gone, or leaving a third, which is how one cut in a salon turned out. When she was nearly finished she told me how much she admired my courage at having such a radical cut!

Whoa! What?

Post-chemotherapy is not really my style, but I learned then how to style it to minimize the radical appearance of it. In my case, combing forward to work with the cowlicks works better than trying to brush it back against them. I'm combing it forward again, thank you very much.

And curly hair hides a lot of mistakes.

It was the back that caused such trauma while Richard was cutting it. Just to give you an idea, when I showed it to one of our friends, she asked me, "What does he think you are: a boy?" As if I don't have enough problems that way!

There are two good things about the cut.

It was free.

It'll grow back.