Of Pinking Shears and Blood

When I was nearly four, we lived in New Port Richey, Florida. At the time, it was an odd combination of retirees and young families. Across the street lived the boy whose ass I whooped for not sharing his wind-up Evil Knievel toy, and up the small hill at the end of the street, another neighbor played bagpipes many evenings at sundown. We ate at the Chinese place nearby, and both my parents worked in retail operations and management. Life was good…

...until that Sunday. (I assume it remained good afterwards, albeit a bit weird.)

Dad had made an early dinner for the two of us while Mom worked, and football was on the TV. He left the room to do the dishes, and since I was an only child, I had the run of the house for my games of pretend. 

I have no memory of what compelled me, but within a few minutes I had procured Mom’s best pinking shears and a piece of notebook paper. I was prepared for what I was about to do. My adult mind always adds a flair deliberate conniving, and being the kid I was, there’s probably some truth to that. Some might say “Why, her core being had already manifested!” or “she knew what was up decades ago”. Both are fairly correct assumptions, I suppose.

So I sat my dainty pigtailed self down in front of the game, gently laid the paper in front of me because cleanliness is important, and got to work on demolishing my towhead.

First the bangs came off, right up to my widow’s peak. Carefully, I rounded around my face, being sure to not cut myself, especially as I shaped that tender skin around my ears. Because every preschooler must have a beautiful coiffure which would later symbolize redneck love, I did make sure the back stayed untouched. My twin bead ponytail holders were all lined up next to the paper so they wouldn’t be lost, and I carefully brushed the stray hairs off my sunsuit.

Project completed, I trotted into the kitchen where Dad was finishing up the dishes, only to hear something along the lines of “GODDAMNIT SHIT HOLY FUCK!” come out of his mouth. He was not talking about my most major accomplishment to date.

Oh no. He grabbed the towel hanging on the stove as blood raced down his hand and wrist, then onto the floor. Guess he found that knife in the sink after all; the cut went almost to the bone.

While Dad was profusely bleeding, he sternly but quietly said “I have to call your mother. I can’t drive.” The man was planning on driving himself to the damn hospital and bringing me with him. Surprisingly, I had no fear and offered to get him a bandage instead, because I knew what Mom would say when she saw both me and him. Then he saw my hair, stared for a second, bleeding, and said “Oh God. She is gonna be so mad.” And she was. My memory is vague; somehow Dad got to the ER for numerous stitches and gratefully didn’t require surgery. The next few days were a blur of hair stylist visits and Mom bemoaning the imminent family photos which had been scheduled a month prior. AND THEN CAME THE PERM. Yes, a fucking perm. That woman’s hairdresser convinced her that the only way to grow out my Redneck Extravaganza Mullet Head was to perm it all into some sort of feeble white girl wannabe afro. We still have the after photos of both the perm and the ensuing “growth mullet”, and no, no one outside my immediate family will ever see them. Dad’s scar finally healed ten years later or so, with no nerve damage, other than the Fear of God my mother put into him about child care.

When you hear people complain about “The Terrible Twos”, always remember the rebelliousness that is the “Fuck You Threes”.