Four Haircuts

This handsome kid is my little brother. This picture was taken at the St. Peters Ward picnic in 1988. You will notice that he is sporting the typical teenage "why are you taking my picture"look. He was such a cutie, even when he glowered.

He is also sporting the typical skater haircut of the 80's.  He spent A LOT of time either on a skateboard, or adjusting/building/manipulating a skateboard...and he was really good at it.  And as his big sister, my contribution to this illustrious skating career was relatively small and mainly cosmetic. I cut his hair. 

I'm not sure whose idea this was.  Did he ask me? Or did I make the suggestion?  I don't know. All I know is that I was 18 years old, had never cut anyones hair in my life, and I probably used fiskars. But I gave him the classic skater look he wanted at the time and had a lot of fun doing it!

That lead to me cutting his friends hair too.  Once again, fun on my part, but apparently, horrific as far as his mother was concerned. Sorry Mrs. Delano.
This is where the whole haircutting thing should have stopped.  But I'm afraid that by this time, we had created a monster.  With fiskars in hand and WAY too much adolescent confidance, I decided I was a beautician.  Obviously the whole beauty school thing was optional and just not for me.   

This is where Mr. Beautiful comes in (insert cringe.)

I'm talking about Mr. Everything On My Shallow List; good-looking, great at volleyball, returned missionary, sings and plays keyboard flawlessly, likes my favorite bands, perfectly whitty and drives the coolest car.  Dreamy.

Oh yeah, and he had a skater haircut, which is probably why when he asked at volleyball one night where a good barber was, my best friend who knew I liked him piped up: "Rosie cuts hair!" 

Oh my gosh.  I suddenly had a "date" with this guy...to cut his hair.  Fortunately, for everyone involved, he got to my house at the appointed time, but before I did.  Just enough time for my mom to probably fall over laughing when he announced why he's there and to warn him to stay away from me and scissors.  When I got there he graciously announced he'd rather go to a movie than get a haircut (my mom probably gave him money for the show AND for a real haircut somewhere else).  We watched Beaches and he held my hand when I cried.

Eventually I would find myself at BYU, living off campus without a car.  Hmmm....how would I get to the grocery store?  I know, I could trade haircuts for rides!  Enter poor unsuspecting victim number four.  This time however, there is no mom to save him.  It's just me, him and my dull fiskars. 

I don't know, I really don't know.  It had to be at least an hour, maybe more, of methodical/perplexed snips here and there. He did not wear a skater cut (pretty much a bowl cut).  He had one of those real haircuts that required tens upon thousands of little hairs all needing to line up and look...normal.  I was lost and I think he knew it, for as soon as my phone rang and I put down the scissors to get it, he practically jumped up out of the chair, made up some excuse and ran out the door.  Poor guy.

I don't cut hair anymore.