This is the story of a disaster.
Do you ever get so stressed you do something really, really stupid? I do. Normally my version of stupid looks like five doughnuts and a chocolate biscuit. Today I took a pair of paper scissors to my fringe and chopped it till I felt better. Then, somewhat predictably, I felt a great deal worse.
I had a meeting this morning. I didn’t intend to get this busy, work-wise, with two little boys and no childcare, but they were exciting projects I didn’t want to turn down, so here we are. A morning meeting, and apparently I have no office-appropriate clothes anymore, so five outfit changes, and a tiny teething boy and a larger boy who won’t ever get off my lap, and yet more wee on the floor, and then finally a fringe so long I couldn’t see. I intended to book a haircut for next week, but so far that had gone the way of the dentist appointment I’m supposed to be making and the cupboard I’m supposed to be cleaning out: no-cheffing-where, that’s where.
The wee was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I can’t stop my toddler from soaking the carpets, my crazed brain said, ten minutes before I had to leave. But by GOLLY I can sort out this fringe.
I got the scissors from my stationery box. Brushed a bit. Then hacked.
About halfway through I realised that this was a terrible, horrible, no good mistake, and froze. There were long bits and short bits and very short bits all fraternising willy-nilly on my face. My scissors were not sharp and my hair was dry. Is half a chopped fringe better than a completed one? I decided to stop, on the grounds that I had no idea how bad the second half might get. And so, pinning back the hair-vomit on my forehead, I shook Henry off my leg and ran for the car.
Oh, the grief of a self-inflicted horror cut. I put on the radio and everything mocked me. No Doubt singing about a failed relationship, like me and the fringe. That song from Dirty Dancing – me and the fringe used to dance like that. Radio Ga-Ga – only people without mutilated fringes could be this cheerful.
I’m sure I cut a fine jib at the meeting. I went straight from there to my hairdresser, and flung myself upon their mercy. In case you were wondering, confessing to an immaculately coiffed woman that you cut off half your fringe because your toddler won’t pee properly is sort of a last-rags-of-dignity life event. They were wonderful, and didn’t laugh [in my hearing].
And that is why morning meetings, paper scissors, pee and a singular lack of ready doughnuts is a pit waiting to entrap those with fringes. I believe this is an appropriate time for an internetism, dear readers: please, learn from my fail.