I’d never cut my own hair before, but that quiet Saturday, suddenly, I could not handle making appointments anymore or waiting on someone else’s time. There I stood, locked in the bathroom, eyes fixed on the mirror, thinking what is the big deal anyway? No actual clippers around. I only had tiny scissors, the ones meant for ripping open packages or snipping loose threads off clothes. Dull blade, crooked point, but I did not care. I still pulled them out fast.

 

At first, I just wanted to trim a little piece, barely noticeable. I pulled one strand forward and snipped the end. Felt fine. Not an issue. After that, though, I grabbed more, sliced off a second patch, then went for a third. Soon enough, I thought about fixing the uneven spots. Then everything took a weird turn.

 

One moment I had sorted the left side, then suddenly the right went completely wrong. After that, the front just did not feel right, so I chopped at it again. Around ten minutes passed, bits were scattered everywhere, and every peek in the mirror made things seem messier. Sweat ran down my face like I had been running hard, but I kept whispering everything is okay, even though it was not true.

My brother strolled past the bathroom, stopping right at the door. His quiet felt worse than any laugh would have been. Speaking very low, he said maybe I should drop the scissors. Then he calmly pulled them out of my grip, like holding metal made him nervous for me.

He phoned the lady from next door. She had worked at a salon years ago. I had no idea he even had her contact. She showed up with her kit, glanced at me, then got straight to work. She did not crack a smile either. She said nearly everyone tries a DIY haircut once but usually ends up hating it. She shared stories about people chopping chunks off when stressed, bored, or trying to save money.

 

Once she was finished, it turned out better than expected. Not flawless, just way better than what I had started with. I kept running my fingers over it without thinking. I really had no clue how it shifted from terrible to okay that fast.

 

The biggest shock was how quickly people stepped in, even though it was not a big deal. My brother could have taken pictures to tease me. The neighbor could have called me dramatic. Yet neither did. To them, it just seemed normal.

Later on, each time I caught my reflection, it felt strange but also kind of satisfying. Strange because things went off track, yet satisfying because I had given it a shot alone, mistakes or not.

 

I figured out that some things seem easy until you are the one holding the scissors. Yet every once in a while, someone shows up exactly when needed, maybe only to clean up after a terrible haircut.