Did you ever get a terrible haircut?

Every few months as a family we would all get our hair cut, minus my dad. He had a favorite barber next to his work. It was a big deal to go into the town of Wappingers for any reason. Our hairdresser, Anthony, was a friend of my mom’s from her art school days at Cooper Union.  He was a painter and his studio was behind a curtain in the back of his beauty shop.  The shop was located in a very old brick building connected to what was one of the oldest movie theaters in the state.  There was a muffled sound from whatever film was playing. To entertain ourselves my sisters and I would try to guess what they were saying. There was always a lengthy period where my mom and Anthony would look at his latest work and talk about art. Their conversation continued as the haircuts began. Needless to say Anthony’s attention was not on the haircut. Although, even if it was focused, the haircuts were hit or miss. Most of the time, if it was okay, we would say, “Well, it was not as bad as the last one”.  Anthony never trained as a hairdresser. He was creative and maybe he was briefly shown a thing or two about scissors. Our instruction was always, “Just a trim this time, I’m letting it grow”.  And then he began, snip, snip, bend your head forward, lean to the side and then the chair would turn away from the mirror.  This time I was in the chair and he kept working on my bangs. A little more from this side, then the other side, all in an attempt to make them even. He finished, took off his apron and spun me around to the mirror.  I burst into to tears. I had barely any bangs left. Everyone said, “Don’t worry they will grow back in no time”. For a few weeks I wore a black head band around my head across my forehead. It looked ridiculous, but not as bad as no bangs. One thing I do not remember is if my mom ever sat in his chair. Maybe she had had one too many terrible haircuts.