My younger brother needs a haircut. We both agree on this. Of course, in typical boy fashion, he waits and waits and waits until his hair is poofy (in a funny phenomena, it grows out and up before getting any longer) and he has a little rat’s tail touching the nape of his neck before he decides it’s gotten out of hand.
Naturally, after going days and days in this unkempt state, he finally decides tonight, at about midnight (also in typical boy fashion), that he cannot go another second without trimming the fuzz on the back of his neck. One more millisecond and the world will stop turning and all hell breaks loose. He’s convinced that if he shows up to work in the morning with another fifteen hours of dead cells on his head, he’s dunzo. Ka-put!
And of course, who does he recruit to help him in his predicament? Who does he drag off the perfectly cushion-ey couch, away from the welcoming land of Facebook, to assist him in this effort?
Me. The only sister around who’s foolish enough to not look busy. I should have pulled up the New York Times when he walked in. I knew I had it bookmarked for a reason.
Not that I’m complaining — or still complaining, rather (I definitely did my fair share at the time). Once he managed to drag me away from my creature comforts, it was actually quite fun to cut his hair. There is something very satisfying about cutting hair that is not mine. Perhaps I should scrap this film business and become a cosmetologist.