Scissors Make Me Sick
Have you ever done something so stupid you felt physically ill afterwards?
Just now in fact.
I just decided, on a whim, that I wanted my straight fringe back. I’ve cut my own fringe a few times before and it’s always come out okay, so I figured, why not? So I got the scissors and made the first incision. This is probably a good place to mention the scissors I was using: kitchen scissors. Not hair scissors, kitchen ones. So, I’d made my first hack. Now to the rest of it. Start going one way and slant to the side so it gradually gets longer. Now to the other side … but wait. I’m right handed – how am I going to do it with my left hand? No problem, use my right hand and turn the scissors around. Slice.
Ever heard that song, “Oh and up she goes” .. ? Last time I heard that was in Titanic whilst Rose was lying on a door, floating in the middle of the Atlantic freezing to death. I felt rather the same after that cut. ‘Shhk’ went the scissors “oh and up she goes”. And up they went. And up my fringe went.
Way too short.
No matter. I can fix this. I can fix this. Just cut it in at the side and make it gradually get longer. Like the other side. That’ll work.
Oh god it’s worse.
Suffice to say, it looked terrible. My hair is the only thing about myself that I can say I truly like, aside from my hands. Never before have I cut my hair and felt so much like I’d just lopped off a limb. You could have stabbed me in the leg and it would have hurt less than seeing that piece of super short hair masquerading as a fringe. Now anyone who’s been with The Hell Butterfly a while will probably know how low my confidence issues are at the best of times. Having nice hair was the one thing that made me not want to vomit on looking at myself in the mirror. Now I can’t even do that.
When that final cut had been made, it was like my stomach had just been shredded. Instantly, I felt nauseous. I managed to hold back my lunch, but the tears didn’t stand a chance. I cried for about ten minutes just repeating to myself ‘Oh God, what have I done? What am I gonna do? Oh fuck’. I locked my bedroom door and seriously considered never opening it again. But I knew I couldn’t do that. Sooner or later I would have to leave. And people would see it.
So I did the best thing I could think of and text my housemate. She was only upstairs, but I wanted her to know I’d fucked up before she saw it. I told her I’d messed up and asked if she could help. Naturally, being the kind person she is, she took it upon herself to come down to my room with real hair scissors in her hand and did her best to fix it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I still hated it when she was done. The fact that she’d stopped what she was doing to help me was enough to hold my tongue. But the hate wasn’t her fault. I hated myself. I hated the wreck I’d become. I hated the obscenity upon my forehead.
I’ve straightened it and combed it to one side now. And put a beanie on. It seems to have flattened it enough to not be painfully noticeable. But it won’t look like that forever. I’ll have to wait at least a month until it’s long enough to get it shaped in professionally. Until then I’ll be faced with my mistake every. single. day.
Oh, and I burnt my knuckle whilst straightening the mess. I guess I deserved it.
Never cut your hair yourself. Ever.