When we traipsed back inside, proud of our new 'do's, our mothers were properly horrified. I vividly recall the ends of my hair brushing my chin while my mother spanked me, and the look on Bonnie's face as her mother did the same.
Today, I couldn't stand my scraggly ends for one more moment. The way they were just this much too long in a pony tail, the way they made me look unkempt instead of hip (it's a fine line!), or the weird coppery color that is the result of however many years' growth covered in old dye. And so today, twenty-four years after that fateful afternoon beneath the mountain ash trees, I again took shears to my own head. Well, I'm not certain if that's the right phrase, since I took two inches off the ends, leaving me with a measly 34 inches instead of the former yard. Those of you who know me well enough to see my hair down can breathe again - it was ONLY two inches. You probably won't even notice.
I can now understand the compulsion to simply keep cutting until your hair is either even or short enough that it doesn't matter. I didn't keep cutting, but I have to admit: my hands were shaky and I needed a glass of wine afterward.
And I wouldn't have stopped if my mom weren't coming on Friday to fix whatever I may have messed up. I don't think she'll spank me this time around, but I have to confess: I'm not entirely sure.