“Did you trim your own hair?” my wife inquired.” I thought you said you never were going to do that again.”
She was right. I did say that. But it’s been 2 months since my last haircut and the fact that my hairs were hanging over my ears was beginning to bother me. Well, a little more than bother me. EVERY WAKING MOMENT WAS SPENT OBSESSING OVER IT.
I finally decided that I could no longer go on in this manner. I was going to trim the sides of my head. Now, I could have done it early in the evening when I had both the time and my wits about me. Or, I could have waited for the weekend. But I decided to perform this delicate procedure on a weekday morning when I needed to get to work, regardless of what the final results looked like.
Living Dangerously is my middle name. (No really, go check my birth certificate. My parents were a little…unbalanced.)
And things started off just fine. Until I turned on the razor. What happened next was a massacre for the ages. Sideburns slowly and unevenly retracted back into the rest of my hair. But I was undaunted. Whatever that means. Every time I thought I had finished the dirty deed, a few stray strands began flopping over the outer rim of my upper ear. I buzzed them off but they kept coming back. Not unlike the Hydra.
After about 10 minutes of frantic razoring, I lied in a heap on the floor, chest heaving. Small mounds of hair were scattered around me. I hoisted myself up to view the carnage in the mirror. And what I saw was this…
(Please be aware that the red circle is merely for demonstration purposes. It does not actually exist on my person.)
To be honest, I’m kinda proud of my handiwork. But it could have been a disaster. It is at times like these when I remember what my hair stylist always said:
“Trying to cut your own hair is like trying to perform surgery on yourself. Both are somewhat risky.”
Wise man, he is.