How To Cut Your Own Hair For Free
Clear eyes, sharp scissors, can’t lose.
I hesitated for a long time before getting a fringe — or bangs, as they call it in America — because I knew it would be a lot of work. At the time I hadn’t been to a hairdresser in two years, having simply let my hair grow into a long, heavy mass that I kept in a ponytail. It wasn’t very interesting, but it was practical, and I knew from other fringe-havers that this little forehead adornment was anything but: not only would it mean diligent washing and styling, but it would also necessitate regular trips to the hairdresser.
As a practical girl with a lazy streak, I knew a fringe was a bad idea. But I couldn’t shake the thought. So one day in the summer of 2009, I went into an intimidatingly trendy East London hairdresser and asked for a fringe. An Australian named Patrick obliged, and out of my neglected mess he crafted a fringe, and what remains to this day the single most perfect haircut of my life.
Patrick moved back to Australia immediately after this, but his work from that day in Shoreditch lives on. Now seven years later, I’ve realized I’m one of those people who’ve settled on their Hair For Life — this is my thing, and I will probably look like this until the end of my days. It’s a simple hairdo: a straight fringe, a few wisps at the ears, long in the back. On a good day it’s a bit 1970s chanteuse, while on a bad day it’s pushed up into a topknot, fringe pinned back because it’s got too long yet again. It feels good: this is my hair, this will always be my hair, I don’t have to think about the hair question anymore as I’ve worked it out. Yes, I know that people enjoy getting creative with this stuff, but for me it’s more a “Steve Jobs with the turtleneck” sort of situation: no more change means freeing up the mind to think about other things.
But back to the issue of the fringe trim. It really is every bit as annoying as they said it would be. I can stretch it to every six weeks, maybe eight if I’m willing to do the side sweep for a couple of weeks, but that is it. My hairdresser Stephen — whom I’ve been going to for years because he understands not to speak during the cut and it’s glorious — will do the trim for free in between appointments, but that means being organized enough to get down to the salon during the “I need a trim” window. I always endeavor to do this, but it usually becomes too unmanageable before I get around to it and that means only one thing: DIY.
First, a warning: everything they tell you about why you shouldn’t cut your own hair is correct. Depth perception when monitoring fine motor skills via a mirror is imperfect, and you could mess up — badly. At minimum, you will look less good than if you went to see a professional. But also, you will get better at it over time, and depending on how neat you want your hair to look, it may well be just fine.
After seven years of practice, I’ve just about got this down so I don’t end up looking like a child who ran off with the scissors. Usually I’ll sit down on the floor next to my full length mirror, draping a newspaper on the floor to catch the hair. I comb my fringe neatly in place, pinning back the wispy bits by the ears and use very sharp scissors — hairdressing scissors are best — to cut straight across a section of hair, held between two fingers. I tilt the scissors at an angle and cut into the hair to soften the line. Then, a quick look after washing and drying post-trim to check for any glaringly uneven bits that may have shaken loose, and I’m good to go.
Due to my last-minute attitude to the task, more than once I’ve ended up doing trims in odd places. My last trim took place in my mother’s bathroom, mere hours before a family photo. I’ve cut my fringe in a restroom above a Chinese restaurant in Melbourne, Australia, having asked my friend to please bring some scissors as my hair was driving me nuts. I jumped at the opportunity to fix my fringe in a men’s hairdressers in Munnar, India, while waiting for a boyfriend to get serviced. The time I gave myself a trim in a San Francisco hotel before a date, I’d brought my own scissors from home, as by this point I’d caught on to my own habits. I may be disorganized, but at least I’m consistent.
