Thursday, 4 November 2010


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.
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