My Favorite Hackjob

Hi everyone, I’ve recently read some great personal stories that others have shared on this site that have inspired me to tell you about an experience I had over a decade ago, one that I still cherish in my heart. 

I haven’t set foot inside a salon since I was a little girl. No one but me has ever known the real reason why I “don’t like” to go to salons; really, as many of you may or do, I would love to visit one. To sit in one of the nice spinning chairs, all caped up and ready to have my hair cut professionally, enjoying the sights and sounds of the place all the while…it sounds wonderful, but I’ve had this interest since I was very young, and I started to feel guilty and self-conscious about going to a place like that as I got older. So, I started cutting my own hair as a preteen, and I still do it to this day!

Since I started doing it myself, only one person has cut my hair for me, and only one time—my husband, after about two weeks of me sheepishly hint-dropping and sometimes flat out asking, finally gave in one night. (Honestly, I don’t think he ever knew why I really wanted him to, so in hindsight, I wish I hadn’t been so embarrassed!) 

Obviously, he didn’t want to, primarily because he didn’t have any training or experience. But I didn’t care…I was overdue for a cut, my hair was growing faster than usual due to being pregnant, and he was the only person in the world that I felt comfortable asking, even if I was too chicken to tell him why I actually wanted him to do it.

Once I got the idea into my head, it got harder and harder to imagine giving up on it. I didn’t want to just slink off to the bathroom to quietly snip off a few inches by myself…I don’t know what it’s like for any of you who also cut your own hair, but as someone who enjoys the idea of being styled according to the wishes of the person holding the scissors, I don’t find it particularly thrilling. 

Anyway, that night, I finally convinced him to “just come help me with the back.” I remember the goofy look he had on his face while he followed me to the bathroom, and how it was hard for me to hide my giddiness. There was no one living with us, so when he closed the door behind us, it excited me for silly reasons. I already had everything stashed in a drawer—“everything” being two pairs of scissors and a wide-toothed comb. I just use dollar-store hair scissors on myself, but for this occasion, I snuck our heavy kitchen shears in there, in the hope that he would use them on me. And yes, my wish came true. 

I went straight for the big shears like it was perfectly normal, and showed him how much I wanted to cut by just slicing off about four inches; to say the least, I was eager to get started, haha…four inches sounds like a fair bit, but my hair was down to my waist at that point. Still, my husband definitely thought it was a lot, because his eyes got all wide. He said “how can you just do that??” Which made me turn as red as a tomato, I’m sure. 

I tried to hand the scissors to him, and he stood there protesting lightheartedly for about five whole minutes. The poor man hadn’t even been entirely sold on trimming the back a little after I was done, he certainly didn’t feel confident about removing several inches of length on his own. To get him past his fear of “ruining” my hair, I clapped the shears into his hand and told his silly ass to just start chopping. 

My heart was already pounding so hard when he finally got behind me, and when I felt him press his palm against my back to smooth down the hair and hold it in a straight line, it pounded even harder. Almost as if he knew that I was enjoying myself, he took his time trying to position the scissors before he made the first cut. Because he’s right-handed, he started on the right side, when the cut I made was on the left. 

After what felt like an eternity of him sliding the heavy shears up and down incrementally, I finally heard the sound of metal against metal as they slowly closed…then the low crunch of a lock being severed. When I felt the hair brush my ankle as it hit the floor, oh boy…I’m just going to use the word “waterworks”, but you know I’m not talking about tears. 

The scissors slid a few inches to the left, and I got to experience the rush again, then again…I felt like I was dreaming by the time the third hunk of hair hit the floor behind me. I could feel him open the shears further than he had been, and my heart skipped as he guided them around as many locks as possible. Let’s be honest, that’s the quickest way to cut it unevenly. I knew that, and I kept my mouth shut, because it meant that he’d be trying to correct it afterwards, cutting more off. 

He dutifully snipped as cleanly as he could, but he was getting all frustrated with how much time it was taking him to do such a messy job of it. He started mumbling under his breath, and I prayed that he’d get fed up and start hacking haphazardly, but he didn’t; he finished his line across my back, which was about an inch lower than where I’d cut earlier. He huffed when he saw how uneven it was, and I encouraged him to do his best…I wanted to invite him to use my jawline as a guide, but the thought of cutting so much hair off made me so nervous that the words got stuck in my throat. 

Instead of starting again at a higher point, or going from left to right, he just gathered all my hair in his fist and started sawing away several inches above his hand. God, as soon as I felt the tug of him holding it all, I remember feeling weak enough that I wanted to slide right down to the floor with the fallen locks…and when the crunching started, I held the counter with both hands just in case. 

With that final snap as he cut through the last lock, I excitedly felt for the new ends, and discovered that my hair had ended up being only a few inches below my shoulders. He ruffled it around and combed it with his fingers to check the length, made two quick snips, and shrugged when he decided that it was even enough. He apologized for cutting too much off, and I gave him a big hug and told him that I loved it. 

When he left the bathroom, I was still so excited that I was feeling bold, so I sat on the floor and gave myself the straightest bangs I could (using the hair scissors!), with the help of a handheld mirror. I stayed on the floor for far longer than I needed to as I cleaned up all the hair afterwards; I had never had so much cut off at once, and the memory of pushing it all into a big pile on that ugly white tile is one I still linger on to this day. 

I very much wanted to ask him for another haircut when my hair grew out again, but unfortunately, we split not long after our daughter was born. However, the memory is one of the better ones I have of our relationship, and although he doesn’t know it, I am grateful to have shared such an intimate experience with someone, and now the memory with all of you. 

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. 

-Miranda

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