Mom used to cut our family's hair. Before marrying Dad and having babies, that was her job. I think I was in high school before I saw the inside of a salon.
At some point, she decided I should have the classic "pageboy" haircut - straight, chin length with bangs.
I waited for what I thought was an appropriate length of time - probably 3 1/2 minutes. I begged, pleaded and whined again. Why, I was practically blind from all that hair in my eyes! And once again - she said I had to wait. She would get to me and my follicle emergency as soon as she could.
I got mad. I pouted. I stomped. I threw my entire hissy-fit arsenal at her. Nothing. She didn't even look up from what she was doing at the kitchen sink.
Then I thought, how hard can it be to cut bangs? I found my mom's sewing scissors (a HUGE breach of household rules - nobody but Mom touched my mother's sewing scissors!) and went to work.
By the time she found me, my forehead had suffered collateral damage. My bangs were much too short and shaped like a bar chart.
She didn't yell at me. She didn't say a word. She just took and hid every pair of scissors in the house. The whining and pleading to fix my hair fell on deaf ears.
For what seemed like weeks (probably a couple days), I had to look in the mirror and see what I had done to myself - the result of my impatience.
And here is the worst part: I had to go to church with that hair. I'm sure people asked about me and my uneven locks... Something to the tune of, "Did Joanie's head fall into a wood chipper?" My mother probably calmly replied that I was a budding hair stylist and had practiced on myself.
She finally fixed them the best she could. From the looks of this photo, I must have thought Chatty Cathy's bangs were too long and "styled" her hair as well.
I tried to remember Mom's gift for discipline when it came to raising my own kids, but I never came close to matching Wilma's skill.
That woman knew how to make a point.