(Don’t) Do It Yourself by Kerri Sackville

Here’s some advice for you: Do not attempt to cut your own hair. Unless you are an ambidextrous hairdresser with eyes in the back of your head, do not do it. Nothing good will ever come from it.

Of course, I am asking you to do as I say, not to do as I do. I have been cutting my own fringe for years. This is despite being entreated by hairdressers not to do it, despite being promised by said hairdressers that they will trim my fringe for free, if only I would pop in and ask them. And, of course, I inevitably do a crappy job. However, a fringe is a small area, and small area, small problem. I just push my uneven fringe to the side, or pin it up, or blow it back, and within a couple of weeks it has grown again.

Small area, small problem. But big area? Big problem. And that’s just what I found myself with last week.

I woke up in the morning and decided I needed a haircut. Desperately. I was having the ultimate Bad Hair Day, except I’d been having it for a month. My hair was horrible – too frizzy, too limp, too long, too shapeless, too wrong in every single way. I needed it fixed. Immediately. Problem was, I didn’t have time to get it fixed immediately. I had three kids at home with me on school holidays. I wouldn’t have a single hour to myself until late the following week.

But I needed a haircut. Immediately.

Now, a sensible person would have booked a haircut for the following week, and simply worn her hair in a pony tail until the magical day arrived. Sadly, I was not sensible. I was exhausted. I was overwrought. I was grumpy. I was having a Bad Hair Day. And I couldn’t wait a single second longer.

I grabbed my pair of professional hairdressing scissors and stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Except that I didn’t have professional hairdressing scissors because I’m not a hairdresser. I grabbed a pair of plain kitchen scissors, stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and began chopping away at my hair.

Yes, yes, I really did.

Amazingly, I did an incredible job. My hair came out perfectly even and beautifully stylish, framing my face in extremely flattering waves.
Except of course it didn’t. It looked absolutely terrible and left me shaking with remorse, and tempted to forget Bad Hair Day altogether and move straight to Bald Head Day with one of my husband’s razors.

Thankfully, I resisted. I made an appointment with my hairdresser, organised the babysitter, and went for a haircut the following day.

“I’ve fixed it up,” said my hairdresser, “but please don’t do it again, okay?”

“I won’t,” I said, and I absolutely meant it.

“And pop by when you next need your fringe cut, okay?”

“I will,” I said, and rolled my eyes internally.

Yup. Like that’s ever going to happen.

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