But then, I'm not Halle Berry.
It all started when my husband mentioned he needed a haircut. I offered, but he declined.
On my way to the shower I stopped in front of the mirror, pondering my bangs. Time for a trim. And my special “notched” scissors would add some extra oomph. They look like regular scissors except they have little indentations all along the blade, so when you use them, they only cut intermittent strands of hair.
I dampened my bangs, thinking it would be cool to snip a bit higher and let the shorter pieces plump up the rest of my long straight bangs. (Later, I tried to analyze how I picked up the wrong scissors, but by then it didn’t matter.)
The clean crunch of a thick section of hair being severed caught my ears, but my hand didn’t get the sickening message and kept on cutting as far as the scissors allowed, which was halfway across my face. The blinking woman in the mirror resembled the Two-Face character of Batman notoriety.
How could I miss these?
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t scream out loud. Then I saw the chunks of hair on the paper towel in the sink and no, I wasn’t imagining the three-inch gap above my right eyebrow.
It’s the same kind of surrealism when you hit something (let’s say a telephone pole) with your car and realize you actually did some major damage and you can’t replay the moment.
My mind raced as I considered options… should I cut the other side to even it out? NO.
That would make me look like Bette Davis
without the curl and I’m not young enough to emulate Katy Perry’s
Fine for her.
Then I wondered if I should take a portion of longer hair and pull it forward to make more bangs? NO. What if I screwed it up worse?
How fast could I get an appointment with my hairdresser? And could she really help without chopping the rest of my hair super short to match? There was no way I could pull off a Halle Berry or even a Natalie Portman. Plus, I had to be at work in forty minutes. What was I going to do? I couldn’t call in with a bang emergency.
So, I got in the shower, closed my eyes and tried to pretend it was all a dream until I felt the bluntness against my finger tips. I hid until the hot water turned cold.
Back to the mirror. I swept what was left of my bangs over the nearly bald side in a comb over move designed to channel Audrey Hepburn. With a helmet of hairspray in place, I ventured out.
No one noticed at work and as long as I didn’t let the wind hit me the wrong way, I was fine.
The best case scenario
When I returned home I wondered how long it would take my husband to perceive what I’d done.
Instead he mentioned getting a haircut again, so I re-offered my services.
Surprised when he said “Sure,” I asked if he really trusted me.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” he joked. “It’s only hair; it’ll grow back if you make a mistake.”
I could hardly contain my mirth as I showed him my gaffe. His eyes widened and he pronounced I would not be allowed to butcher his hair.
After dinner, we watched TV and he said I looked pretty.
To which I replied “Uh-huh, in spite of my bang snafu?” and—sweet, sweet man—he said, “Especially with your bang snafu.”
(Did I mention the show we were watching was Cirque du Freak: The Vampire’s Assistant?)
Just sayin’… ~ JD here.