Ms. Scissorhands

There are many things I have learned to do with my hands. Cutting hair is not one of them.


I think it is fair to say there is a certain amount of intimacy between women that can be classified as universal. The slip of some extra toilet paper beneath the bathroom stall; the friendly indicator wink which can signify things like smeared lipstick or tucked up skirt; the "zip your purse up" reminder. Women talk to each other in bathrooms and public places in a way that men don't. Or at least, I have been told. So when a complete stranger asks me for a tampon or pulls a piece of runaway hair from my shoulder, I typically don't think much about it, as if we once sipped on slurpees together and my passing of a feminine product is as normal as can be. However, when another woman hands you a razor and asks you to shave her hair off down to her skull ... that is new territory. At least for me. 

This first one was exuberant every step of the way. I cut off each of her four pony tails one by one, went to a mohawk, then bangs only, until the final reveal. The second customer, however, was a red head with extremely thick hair. It took me over twice as long, and the razor was getting dull. She wasn't quite as jovial, which had me thinking towards the end. What if she hates this? And for the rest of her life, I am the person that did this to her? She asked me to do it, I know, but I can't help but think that I am somehow, inadvertently, cemented into the history of these girls' lives whose names I do not even know.

One of my other daughters, Jillian, went gangbusters with her camera if you would like the play by play. I didn't want to post all 800, so I put about about 50 of them on my flickr account.