Relax. I’ll just cut a bit here and … Oh shit.
Birthdays seem to go hand in hand with relatives trotting out photographs of your younger self you wish did not exist. Forced to relive those mortifying moments when your parents were still the dictators of your wardrobe, you notice an unsightly trend as each image flips before you.
Who the fuck has been cutting your hair?
I have never got on with my hair and its constant mockery of my life began as a baby, when I would lie on my back and roll around the floor in an attempt to be athletic. This act was to have a severe impact on my dignity because, on the joyous day of Baby’s First Hair Cut, the hairdresser was met with an unsightly bald patch on the back of my bulbous noggin. Funnily enough, I have only ever seen this phenomena one other time—a local stray cat rubbing his ass on concrete. Said cat was bald in three days.
It seems hair only exists to scorn us. At age six, I retaliated to its misgivings by strategically placing a wad of gum in the curls behind my left ear as we drove around one Saturday afternoon. Sticking it to the man, as it would seem. My feeling of sheer triumph was short-lived, replaced with trepidation once it became clear that no, the gum was not going to cooperate. And, as my mum went to the kitchen drawer to retrieve a pair of scissors, it dawned on me that my hair had won. Again.
After that unfortunate incident, I spent three months growing out a kinky scrap of hair that stuck out in all directions. On purpose, I’m sure. So at age 12, I took drastic measures and opted for the pixie cut. After a month, once the novelty of mohawks and liberty spikes wore off, I was left with a curly mop of hair that refused to cooperate. Too lazy to blow dry or brush it, I spent my early adolescence looking like a hobbit. Clearly I had forgotten how much this irritated me because I cut it all off again at the arrogant age of 17. As I restyled it back into a mohawk, a skill that comes in handy, I jokingly thought I would make an excellent Harry Potter.
To date, I have dressed as Harry Potter three times.
It was clear something needed to be done about Hair before it turned me into a walking shrine to J.K Rowling. I made a vow to grow it out, wash it, tend to it, and whisper sweet nothings between brushings in the hopes it would stop being such a raging bitch and sit right for once. It’s a battle, I’ll admit, growing out hair. Hair’s latest trick is getting caught in car doors but looking back on the recent photo albums, I’m glad A-Typical Nineties Hair has been laid to rest.
But whatever you do, don’t mention The Bob. I’m yet to forgive my four-year-old self for wanting that one.