Hairstylist Extraordinaire

From the time we got married, I have been the “official” haircutter for my man. As the family has grown—so too, have my snipping responsibilities. I have not been professionally trained, though by now, I am sure I am about 40 hours into the 600 required for state licensing purposes (isn’t it funny that hairdressing requires a license? And why, then, is it that 4 out of 5 of my haircuts from a 'professional' are still subpar?).

While growing up, my brothers’ hair was woefully managed. The boys grew their hair out way too long (and let me remind you, this was the 90’s, and that long shaggy ‘do all of the deacons now flaunt was NOT the status quo). Finally, my mom would talk the boys into a cut. She would glue them to a chair, pull out the clippers and get to work. The results were generally, ummm, interesting. (you’ll note that my father did NOT let mom wield the shears on himself—he had seen the fruits of her labors too many times on the boys).

It was following my first year at BYU that I watched the family for a week while my parents went to England. My youngest brother, Chris, was 2 years old and badly in need of a haircut. I bravely pulled out the buzzer and had at him. The results were not bad—definitely not perfect, but better than a mom cut. I talked my older brothers into a haircut later and found I was more talented at cutting hair than my mom. Shortly following our marriage, I told D about my untapped hairdressing potential and he thought he’d let me have a go at him. He figured we could save 100 or so dollars a year by having me cut his hair—and the convenience! So, it was decided, I would be stylist of our family.

To this day, I regret my consent to this plan. Some of our greatest arguments have taken place over a haircut. D, “What are you doing right now?”

Camilla, “Cutting your hair.”

D, “But didn’t you already cut that side?”

Camilla, “Just be quiet and let me work.”

D, “But I think you did the other side differently”

Camilla, “Oh, now you have eyes on the back of your head?”

Picture this argument ballooning out of control and ending with Camilla crying on the bed and D apologizing (with alterior motives, of course—his hair was only half done).

Many of my other regrets about our choice to have me act as the stylist include (but are not limited to): hairs to clean up on my kitchen floor and my clothes following unpleasant event, an hour (yes, it takes me an hour folks!) out of my evening, and haircutting around a gigantic pregnant belly—I still think this act shows my deep love and commitment to my husband.

As much as I hate cutting D’s hair, I have found there are worse things—cutting my childrens' hair! Last week during Davis’s haircut, I accidentally snipped his ear. He cursed and screamed at me and told me I was the worst mom ever. I also find myself snipping Roger’s hair on the fly—I can’t get him to sit still long enough for a proper cut—so his hair is constantly undergoing transformation. This means I am ever yelling at Eliza to, “hurry and go get the scissors right now so I can cut Roger’s hair while he is sitting still.” Usually as soon as she brings them down to me, Roger’s interest in Elmo has waned and he is now crawling on the floor.

Yesterday I took Eliza to Supercuts. Her hair had grown more than halfway down her back and I’d been battling her daily over the snarls ("You have to brush your hair or you can't go to preschool!"). I begged her to cut it, but could only convince her to have it done if a “real” haircutter would do it. We walked in. There was no wait. She hopped up on the chair and sat as quietly as a statue (fear, I guess). Jennie sprayed her hair down, she cut it in 15 minutes and was done. No yelling involved, no bribes required. Eliza was glowing and whipping her hair around like a supermodel in the wind.

I learned yesterday that some things are just worth paying for.