When my siblings and I were young, Dad cut our hair.
Yup. My DAD.
And no, he wasn't a barber. But he did have an official "Barber Kit" that held his long sharp scissors, a mirror and a little soft brush to sweep our faces clean of clippings.
For home styling, he actually did decent cuts for my sister, brother and me. I still remember the towel draped over my shoulders, fixed with a big safety pin as I sat obediently on the kitchen chair. He was so careful and never nicked an ear, patiently ensuring everything was even and perfect.
The only time I cried getting my hair cut was after I received Silly Putty for my birthday. I was so amazed at that stuff (pressing it to the comic pages, bouncing it all over the house), I fell asleep with it clasped tightly in my hands.
Well, until some time in the night when I let go.
And awoke the next morning with hair a Silly Putty Mess.
So father got out the Barber Kit once more and gave me a "Pixie Cut" to remove the pink goo from my six year old head.
When he was done I looked like a boy.
A crying mess of a boy.
I was teased at school and I couldn't wait for it to grow out once more.
From that day forward, I've kept my hair long so I'd never be mistaken for a boy again.
Then came 1977.
I had a job.
I had money.
And I had really long hair.
So I spent $80 for my first professional cut and perm for my flowing locks.
It was also the same time I was dating my future husband on his sheep farm.
Gad. Looking back at this photo I have to wonder...
Who should have been more worried about the Shearer; that little lamb?
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