When I was five, my parents left me alone in the living room for about a half hour with heavy-duty scissors. In this time, I decided to give myself and my teddy bear a haircut. I managed to chop off a lot of the hair on the top-front of my head, while my teddy bear managed to come out prettier. This was probably because I could see what I was doing to its fur with each cut.
I managed to cut my own hair in just such a way that there was nothing my parents could do to hide it. It was too short for bangs, and I had made enough cuts to not have hair atop my head to cover the mess. My dad, unhappily, cut all my hair to the same short length of 1 inch. I didn't personally care, but I know it hurt him to chop off the rest of my really thick, healthy, long black hair. At least, this is what I gathered from the look in his eyes.
When I turned thirteen, and I again made the decision to chop off my thick, healthy, long black hair to imitate T-Boz of TLC, I knew he hated it then, too. But he never said a word. He just let me ride out my trends until I got sick of them on my own.