I fought the scissors, but the scissors won

Yes that was a Clash reference. So about a month ago, I decided to cut my own hair. If you remember, I mentioned a few posts back that I had had it cut quite short, which meant after a while it was bound to grow into a mess. I needed to let it grow back, therefore suffering through the various stages of growth was an inevitable necessity. Having pixie hair was fun, but I missed having hair over my ears and around my face – force of habit, what can I say? So I went for it, I took the pair of scissors that had been taunting me for a while and…chopped. My first attempt wasn’t all that bad, but since I couldn’t see the play going on at the back of my head, some actors went astray aka I forgot a few longer strands and it wasn’t a super clean cut. Since I was determined to finish what I had started, I did my best to fix my mess. Not bad, I ended up with a decent result. Skip a few weeks and there I was in my bathroom staring at my almost black mane, this dark mass of hair I’ve always liked but also always wanted to change. Contradiction, oh how familiar art thou. So as usual, I just said “what the hell”, pretended I was a hair colourist, bought a bunch of odd smelling tubes and experimented in my bathroom while my mum watched amused and a tiny bit frightened. Well who wouldn’t be if they were watching someone risk going bald, or whatever might happen in the obscure dimension of hair? Success, I ended up a ginger, a long time dream of mine. It wasn’t a uniform colour job but it was still really amusing to behold – going from dark and mysterious Wednesday Addams to peppy retro ginger isn’t something you witness every day, is it? A few days passed and this morning, waking up at 5 am due to my incessant cough from the super horribly timed flu I caught, I got up, looked in the mirror, looked to my right and there they were…the scissors. They called me, whispered my name – or one of them anyway – and my hands just grabbed them off the table. They were there, I was too… I couldn’t stop myself, the urge to chop had returned and…I now have a fringe (or bangs if you’re unfamiliar with the term). I’ve never had one before so I must say it takes time getting used to having something on my forehead, or seeing my reflection staring back at me in a 60s inspired look. Red lipstick, where are you my friend?

Conclusion, this summer was quite eventful, especially when it comes to my head, both intellectually and aesthetically; I added stuff in and chopped off another bunch, nothing to my displeasure, an adventure I’m quite glad I had. However, I think it’s time someone took away those scissors…


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