GOT SCISSORS?

I look in the mirror this morning. “What did I do?” I take a brush and wet down my hair, squirt some Paul Mitchell the size of an apple and wonder where to scrunch. No more long beautiful auburn curls cascading on my shoulders. Where do I begin? My bangs run across my forehead, rather ragged and uneven, giving my forehead a tilted appearance, as though I am wearing severely bent eyeglasses. The hair at the sides is pathetically short. I shudder when I look at the hack job I did on the back.

I’ve always had long hair. The thought of losing it when I go through the chemotherapy has been plaguing me. I’ve just about exhausted my thinking about the surgery, recovery, the radiation treatments, and all the symptoms, especially the fatigue. I’m feeling the fatigue now because the cancer isn’t being dealt with yet. So recently I began to seriously think about having my hair cut really short, military style, before the surgery, just so I won’t have to bother with this devastating aspect later.

I guess that’s what motivated me to reach for the old reliable utility scissors hanging on a hook in the kitchen. I’ve used these scissors for opening boxes, cutting through annoying hard plastic packaging, and even vinyl blinds. I figured they’d meet the challenge of cutting through 8 inches of hair. Little did I realize how tired these scissors had become. As my left hand was gripping the rope of hair, my right hand was working the blades rather painfully. After a few minutes, I discovered the blades weren’t working at all, there was no hair on the floor, and my right hand was red from gripping the scissors furiously.

Now what! I had a huge clump of hair in my grasp, running around the house searching for a sharp instrument, feeling much like I was holding my own head running away from a dull guillotine. Great!! I remembered my old sewing box buried deep underneath a pile of hardcover books that no one has ever read, but promise they will some day. With one hand, I finally uncovered the sewing box, and discovered some scissors. Well, not exactly scissors in the sense of being useful to finish the job at hand, but nonetheless, they would have to do.

After a half hour of chopping and trimming, I finally left it at that. Pinking shears can do just so much.

Definitely, with my oversized long tweed coat and my gloves with the cut-off fingers, I could easily pass for a homeless bag lady.