I love them. When I was 3, my father gave me a timeout for trying to cut his friend’s fashionable cuff. I had to stand by the wall, my hands raised. I held those scissors high and proud, and laughed. The friend was chagrined (I’d managed to cut a little at his cuff), especially since I’d bitten his leg before. I clearly remember my father’s amusement, although he did scold me for laughing, pro forma.
By the age of 4, I’d chopped the hair off on all my dolls and was becoming an expert in haircuts. My best friend had long chestnut hair, and one day I chopped off her hair too, leaving bald patches. It was a beautiful haircut which her mother remembers to this very day. Also, one day I cut my mom’s hair while she slept.
By the time I was a teenager, no one let me close to their hair, so I turned on myself. Glorious times these were – no one had a haircut like mine! The angrier I was, the more I cut. The most hair I’ve ever cut was while finishing my diss.
With time, I discovered substitutes. Lilac, for instance – oh the pleasure of cutting it down to stumps! As a matter of fact, the whole idea for this post was inspired by the plant-cutting I did today – my daughter, who is well aware of my propensities, asked me to reduce the size of one of her plants. I’ve no idea what exactly it was, plus Maggie and I disagreed on the extent of the cutting, but I tell you – it felt gooood!
I also love cutting down texts – I do it in my head, jotting down mental notes – wordy, fluff, inconsequential. Hey, I even kept slashing on my own diss, until it rang clear and rhythmical, like a Catullus’ hendecasyllabic. I cut jeans into cut-offs, t-shirts into sleeveless tanks. But altogether, cutting hair is my favorite. Maggie, my first-born, has had only two haircuts without me as the agent.
So – what’s up with this cutting business?