New Profession?

It was 1994. At a rowhouse in "de Maten". Carla needed a haircut. She had scissors, and I was willing. That was the first time someone put complete trust in me, and let me alter their appearance. It really wasn't a very exciting occasion, only an inch or two came off. My next victim: Roel Schrama. The (only) guy in my class with long hair. I'm sure it took me weeks of nagging and complaining, before he finally agreed. No one had ever shown me how to cut guy's hair. I just winged it. Some other early guinea pigs included my dad, the missionaries, and my girlfriends.

It was never a big deal. Someone asked me; I obliged. Over the years, my skill and confidence increased. The eve of my wedding Joe needed a haircut. I made the mistake of listening to him describe how I should cut it. I should have stuck to my gut. In all our wedding photos, the sides of his hair were almost military short. Over the years, the haircuts have kept coming. Babies, toddlers, children, husband. None of these haircuts are nerve racking. So what if Winter's hair's crooked, or there's a chunk missing out of Sterling's head? It will grow back! Even Joe isn't very picky as to the length or style.

Last week, I got nervous for the first time in a long time. Josh was ordered a haircut, but he really didn't want to cut any off. The goal: a more polished look, that was still long. Owen Wilson. This haircut was special; There was a picture. An expectatation. Thinner hair than I'm used to. And then there was his girlfriend. She willingly got into the chair, but I could feel her apprehension. I don't have a license. I've never been educated. She's never really even seen any of my work. Plus, her hair is thicker than any I've ever worked with.

Sometimes it's not until the end of the haircut that the anxiety kicks in. What if too much has come off? What if they don't like the look? What if it's totally crooked? At this point of my anxiety attack, the rational angel on my left shoulder, has to overpower the anxious one on my right. My "customers" know there's no license, education, or guarantee that they won't come out looking like frankenstein. All they can have, is faith. Faith that I'll do whatever is in my power, to let them walk away with a decent look. I guess if they really hate it, they can always go to the salon and pay that professional to fix my mishaps.

Cutting hair is entertaining. I couldn't make a living doing it, as it would bore the bejebers out of me. But a few haircuts a month are great. The only depressing thing about the whole situation is, that others end up with free haircuts, while I have to scrounche up $25 to get my own hair fixed. Trust me, I've tried doing it myself. It's just really hard to see what you're doing, when your hair is halfway down your back. Lillie, at grandma's salon, is a great stylist. She's the first stylist I've ever gone back to. Other stylists either cut off too much, hack layers, or just don't have a clue what I want. Yesterday I forked over the $25, and enjoyed every minute in that chair. The way she massaged my scalp. The feeling of someone combing my hair. And even the sound of the snipping scissors. If I didn't know any better, I would have even gotten a perm, just to enhale the addictive toxic fumes.