Friday, July 9, 2010


I've never, ever given a haircut to anyone. Except myself, and that's turned out all levels of fail until recently (because when you have a fringe that runs straight across your forehead and you actually have depth perception which didn't exist 5 years previous, it's not that hard to do). I've had the cutting my hair whilst it was in a ponytail. I can't really remember the specifics of that one. My mother just tells me it was hilarious, watching me weep as Dad took out the hairtie and my hair clumped to the floor. I've cut my fringe, which ended up being about 2cm long. And about 2cm above my eyebrows. Not a good look. Also, I've tried cutting my hair into a bob. I have not tried that since.
So, you can imagine my reaction when Chris, armed with a $15.99 Remington Shaver Set, said, "Tash. We're doing this."
I looked up from conversations on Facebook - yes, mine is the scintillating life - and eyed him. "Doing what?"
"Cutting my hair."

My brother's hair is, from afar, a thing of beauty. (Up close, not so much, because he hadn't washed it.) He had been gifted with the luscious locks of my Chilean ancestors, and had it growing long and reaching the stage of curling. My hair, by comparison, makes me look adopted when standing with my cousins. It is dead straight. It is dark brown, to be sure, and some people do mistake it for black from time to time. But my hair is so persistently straight that I try curling it, and I have to put toffee product, curlers, and sea salt spray in it, then sleep on it, and then pray fervently that Brisbane'll experience a non-humid day for once.
Anyway, I was distraught. "Cut your hair? How short?"
Chris shrugged. "I dunno."
Seeing as I don't understand the numbers on clippers, Chris clued me in vaguely. As far as I can tell, where Chris had hair which nearly rivalled my preferred length, he has now been left with downy soft hair 1cm long.
One. Centimetre.

Doing this was quite weird. I'm tiny, and my brother in comparison to me is at least 15cm taller. I come up to the kid's armpit (not a good thing to realise). Chris solemnly handed me the clippers, and I set off.
Only problem was, Chris has thick hair. And he was not up for me hacking off a bit of the foliage to fully destroy the forest. It was like trying to cut down the Amazon with nail scissors.
And suddenly, the razor started emitting a loud, disconcerting buzz.
"What's that?" I asked, thrusting the razor at him.
Chris flicked the razor off and on, and the noise still whined from it. (Apparently, whining electrical objects is my lot in life.) 
We had destroyed the razor. 
So, another $15.99 clipper was quickly bought from Woolies across the road, my brother's scalp was given a chance to breathe, and now I am left with nothing more to do.

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