Shear Addiction

By urbanbrat | June 10th, 2009 at 5:05 pm

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Someone needs to come into my home and physically remove all
scissors from my cabinets, drawers, and desk organizers.  What I thought would be a simple trim to
remove the halfway-there-mullet from the back of GiGi’s head, has turned into a
daily haircut. 

Is there a documented, known condition in which one feels
like they must keep cutting hair?  I
swear I’m addicted.  My hands tingle and
those shiny trimming shears that my mother keeps next to her barbers’ chair
outside call to me at unexpected times, like when I’m eating a banana and
watching a little Adventures in Babysitting.
 The hairs on her sweet little baby
noggin seem long and unruly, even though they were just trimmed the day before,
and the day before that.  I’m out of
control.

The good news is that her hair has not been butchered and/or
severely altered for the worse. Also.. mo more constant pigtails or hair in her eyes. The
first person I asked was my sister, who let me know that it looked nice.  Of course, she winced at the idea of me
cutting her hair so soon (is two really that
young for a first haircut?).  I set up
Salon d’megg in the bathroom and as she ran past the door on the way to the
kitchen, I asked her opinion.  There was
a brief “awwww” and then a “don’t forget to save a lock of her hair,” as she
vanished from the room.  Dude.  How could I have forgotten to keep hair?  I’m like, Queen of Sentimental and
Sappy.  I reached into the sink where the
hair was swirling around the sides, headed for the drain, and swiped the little
lock left in there.  So, wet and funky
looking, it sits in a little Ziploc bag. 
I wonder what I need it for. 
Surely my mother has a lock of my hair from my first cut, but to my
knowledge and recollection I’ve never seen it. 
You’d think she would have pulled it out by now and shown it to some ex-boyfriend
or best friend as proof that I’m not really a brunette.  Proof that I wasn’t ever a red-head.  Evidence that I’m blonde and blonde can
be.  Bu no, no she hasn’t.  She what do I need it for?

When my dad saw the trim he was delighted by the new do and
impressed that I hadn’t “messed it up,” which I must say, I was too.  If anyone is going to give me a completely
honest opinion it would be my dad, so I trust that it isn’t wretched.

So, my problem is not that the haircut is awful, or that I fucked
up a precious head of hair, but that I cannot STOP cutting hair.  Every day I notice something that needs
correcting.  Like, her bangs aren’t short
enough or that her hair is .000005 millimeters longer on the left than the
right.  Then I tried to make sure her hair
would sort of curl under, so I put a tiny spritz of product in her hair and
used the blow dryer. 

OH MY GOD.

If someone doesn’t stop me, GiGi will have a faux hawk or
some other equally modern style.  I will
slowly become a stage-mom sans the stage and bedazzled trophies, and have lip
gloss on her lips by age three and a push up bra by age four.  No, I don’t agree with any of the gussying up
of small children, but I’ve already put product in her hair and become addicted
to the sweet goodness that is hair cutting addiction – high on the existence of
shape and lack of mullet.   In love with
the fact that she doesn’t resemble the jail mugshots of Gary Busey or Nick
Nolte from the back anymore.  What’s
next?  Baby highlights? 

 (ooooh bangs!)

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