Embarrass Me[me] - Take TWO

Oh, dammit. I guess it's that time again… 


As promised last week, I have another installment of Embarrass Me[me]. All thanks to the insanely talented Ms. Midnight. Can you go poke her for me? Hard. 


RECAP: Lynn tagged me to do this Embarrass Meme thing… Long story short, I talk too much and turned it into a weekly thing until I have all seven done. Sound good? Sure. Why not? This week has sucked so royally, laughing at myself might just be a good thing. ;)

Back to...

2. Cutting my hair long

Yes, you read that right.

Now, as a child… this was one of those humiliating things I did that lingered well into my teenage years. For some reason it's had a death grip that could make prying Leonardo DiCaprio off Kate Winslet seem like melted buttaaahhh.

The first thing you have to understand… In my defense, I have always been an analytical person. ALWAYS. You must make sense to me or I will blow you off.

Webster FTW.

Picture it: I was a scrawny little four year old with blonde hair and an intense desire to leave it right where it was. On my head. I was trying to grow my hair out and I didn't see how cutting it fit into that plan. Smart, right?

So the setting takes place on a sunny Saturday morning... I was peacefully minding my own business (aka, not torturing my younger brother) and watching my favorite show at the time: Webster. --------->

My mother musta caught a whiff of unguarded whimsy and pounced.

"Carissa," she cooed, "I know you don't want to cut your hair short. But did you know, when you cut your hair, it makes it grow faster."

"Mmmmmhmmmm. Okay, Mom." I nodded. Webster had just gone behind the neat-o grandfather clock thingy that was a secret passage. It was soooo cool. (Man, I still want one of those.)

"Excellent!" she exclaimed.

I lowered my eyebrows and turned to face her. "Wait… what you say?"

"You agreed to get your hair trimmed." she smiled.

A look of panic replaced my whimsy and I started doing flashy jazz hands out in front of me. "No… no…"

"Really, your hair will grow faster if we cut it. We'll just do a little bit… just a trim and you'll see."

"Just a little?" (I was curious now. Mistake number one.)

Yes, because of the promise my hair would grow longer faster, I allowed the heinous act to take place.

The next morning… while lying in bed scheming out my day... my wheels started turning.

Analytical, overachiever, four-year-old me thought:

If trimming your hair makes it grow faster… Then CUTTING your hair will make it grow faster yet!

BRILLIANT!

Of course I knew where the scissors were. My parents had placed them in the tiny nook above the highest cupboard because of the last time I tried to cut my brother's hair.

The sun had just risen… Lucky for me, I was a morning person. And a climber. ;)

Wouldn't my parents be surprised when they saw how loooooong my hair was?

Thirty-five seconds later: After flinging back the cupboard doors and scaling Mt. McSuperHighCupboard, I had my beloved prize.

★˙˚★★My magic scissors of hair growth.★★˚˙★

How had I not known about this before?? I will be Rapunzel in no time, now!

I pulled out the chair into the middle of the kitchen, as my mother had done it the day before. (I needed to be all professional-like, you know.) Needless to say, my brilliant idea ended with my parents walking in on me with the scissors held high and my (longish) hair all over the floor.

I believe the first words out of my mother's mouth were: "What the [expletive deleted] are you doing!?" (You have to forgive her, she's not a morning person.)

My dad snickered.

So, here's the fun part… turned out: It was Easter Morning. 


The push to trim my hair was really so I looked presentable and not like the ferrel tomboy I was. (That worked out well.)

My mother, now with a look of death in her eye (it was twitching), promptly snatched my magical instrument and whipped the hair sheers out. Then, much to my dismay, she buzzed my entire head.

Evidently, she didn't like my snazzy tuft-o-stylage.

This now meant going to my family's Catholic Church, in my frilly Easter gown with a big-ass bonnet on my head to cover up the fact I had no hair.

It didn't help. I was still teased for being a boy in a girl's dress.

To a little girl. It sucked. 

To a teenager who's heard the story umpteen-million times…

It made you want to burn photos.

Moral of the story: Information is dangerous in the minds of a child. Use it with caution.

Shut up. Pixie hair is awesome.
(At least I didn't have to wear a bonnet.)

• Up next Friday...

3. Too much of Gramma is not a good thing