Scissors

Yesterday my inner four-year-old whacked off her hair with scissors, while my outer fifty-eight-year-old stood back and watched in horror. My inner four-year-old is more skilled with scissors than she used to be, so I still look mostly okay, particularly if you squint when you look at the right side of my head.


I look even better if you only look at my left side.


I'd probably look better still if I wore a hat at all times.

At some point, my raging allergies will get under control enough that I can go back to Spin the reasonably-priced barber and get my hair cut without the chemicals in the really-not-very-chemically barber shop setting me off. This is not that point. This is also not the point when I'll grow my hair long again and just get it trimmed once every year or two.