My mother decided to give me a haircut. Just out of the blue, she tells me she’s going to cut my hair. I’m like what the hell? I’m not going to let you get anywhere near my hair! No! Not the hair! But no, guess what? She decides to layer it as well. Her logic goes something like, if the hair on the inside is shorter than it is on the outside, the hair will curl inwards instead of sticking out in wonky angles. Er, I’m sorry mother, but it’s not going to work like that – the hair is still going to stick out at wonky angles, just at A MILLION DIFFERENT LENGTHS!

So I’m standing there, trying not to move a single muscle, because she’s managed to get me shit-scared that if I make any sudden movements the scissors will just fly off and cut a big random chunk of hair out. She’s cut a good length off and stands a distance away to admire her handiwork. Hmmm, she says, still a bit long for my liking, why don’t we cut it a little more? I make her promise to trim it just a little, but apparently she is also working on the hairdresser’s principle of cutting your hair fifteen centimetres more than you specified. While she’s happily snipping away, I can feel her fingers tremble ever so slightly as the blades struggle to go through the hair. I start to worry. After quite a lot of this she says you know, maybe these scissors are a bit blunt. You don’t say!

Then when my mother is done with her ‘trim’ my once-glorious hair is half the length it was previously. As I’m bemoaning the loss of my long, dark locks, she tells me it’s perfectly fine. If anything it makes me look more ‘youthful’. She’s like, who wants to have really long hair and to look four years older than you already are? HELLO??? Earth to mother? I’m not even going to dignify such a stupid question with an answer. Jaysus.

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