I hit my breaking point last night.

It’s been building, and growing, for weeks. Months really.

Last night I cut the source of my troubles free.

I cut my own hair.

All my hair dressers over the years roll their eyes when they fix my bangs. But I can’t handle my bangs in my eyes. Not even below my eyebrows. It is a nagging annoyance that I can’t tolerate. I have to trim them long before the rest of my head needs a trim.

But it wasn’t my bangs that I cut last night.

Yesterday I walked by the one place in town that sometimes has a hair stylist or barber in town, in addition to a massage therapist. (My friend who operated a salon here closed up shop and moved away last summer. My last hair cut was in Ontario last summer.) The signs on the door said they’d be back on the 19th, and that women’s haircuts were happening on some Saturdays, but call in advance.

It was Monday.

My hair is so long and shaggy.

I can’t wait until a Saturday. Not even if it was this Saturday.

What you maybe don’t know about long hair is that it pushes up a toque as you walk. It’s this annoying fuzz between your coat and your toque and it is static and dry and generally just too opinionated.

Jeff’s out of town for work right now, so last night I paused my annual binge of the Gilmore Girls to Google “how to cut your own hair”. I’m sure there was a day when all the search results just said, “DON’T CUT YOUR OWN HAIR”, but then covid happened, so YouTube was full of newer videos of gals cutting their locks.

And they were bad! One gal was using these tiny eyebrow scissors and cutting her long hair with these little scissors.. well, more like sawing her hair. I can do better than that!

“Don’t use your kitchen scissors!” another video said.

No problem! I have super sharp, expensive fancy long scissors for grooming the golden retrievers I had. Thinning shears too! Heck I’m set.

So I shut off YouTube and went into the bathroom.

I armed myself with my grooming scissors, a mirror, I put a kleenex over the sink drain to catch my locks. Then I got a comb and I combed. And combed. And held my hair between my fingers. And then combed again. And then held it up. Then looked in the mirror. 20 minutes passed. I hadn’t cut a hair. I was totally chickening out.


Procrastination over! I knew if I just cut one chunk I’d have to keep going.

So I put the top half of my hair in a bit of a bun to get it out of the way (mostly because most stylists start that way when they’ve cut my hair before. I had to at least pretend I had a clue of what I was doing). And I started cutting. In big chunks.

How do I cut the back straight?

I still don’t know.

I just cut it off.

And was smiling.

My long miserable locks were in the sink.

And it doesn’t look half bad!

It isn’t even. And I don’t care. It is a million times better than it was.

And I can get Jeff to spotcheck it when he’s home tomorrow.

So, I have photos. Wanna see?

Here’s a before view, from hiking on Sunday.

Here’s me after hacking it off and giving it a quick wash.

Please forgive the state of our bathroom paint. It’s about to get a new coat of paint (buh bye terrible sponged ceiling).

Other side:

And the morning after:

Will I keep cutting my own hair?


But I’m so so happy I didn’t have to shave it off last night to cover my impulsiveness!