I’ve never liked having my hair cut. The idea of a stranger touching my hair doesn’t sit well with me. Small talk isn’t my thing. Knowing what I want done with my hair, that’s another thing which has always baffled me.

With increasing and more constructive mental shifts, the desire to have a short hair cut has been a growing concern. But I’ve read about some less than helpful accounts from some about getting a suitable hair cut considering what I would like and the general vibe that I’m more attuned to nowadays.

So I’ve been trying to summon the courage to go to a hairdresser. I’ve always had long hair, chopping it all off seems so sudden, especially as I play with my hair a lot.

I decided to give myself a slightly more encouraging home cut. Just taking a bit more off than what was previous cut off with a so-called wolf cut, which resulted in feeling very meh about the result. (That may have been another clue) Just a step into the path to short hair.

Tie it up.

Cut, cut, cut.
Hack.

Snip. Snippy snip.
Snip.
Snip.

Hack.
Tiny snips.

OK. Take out the ties, and look in the mirror, with it down.

Oh fuck.

I’ve given myself the worst kind of mullet.
The suburban 70s mother. Sorry if that is your look.

Some people really suit a mullet, I do not, it turns out.

I’m now waiting for very recently purchased electric clippers to delivered and I might just shave it all off.

This is not quite the result I wanted.