The haircut reminded me of my first haircut, which was also very, very short. Cut that way by my older brother with the garden shears when I was eighteen months old and he was five. Actually he only wacked off one side before my grandmother looked out the kitchen window and came screaming out into the yard to stop him. Later, my grandmother with tears in her eyes met my mother at the backdoor when she came home. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't stop him before... before..."
My mother pushed her way inside. "What? What are you telling me? Where are the children? Are my babies all right?"
And there I sat in a highchair eating a cracker with one side of my head covered with delicate, darling blonde curls while the other side looked like an Indian had gotten hold of me, cutting my hair close to the scalp.
Mother was so relieved that no one had been hurt, or worse. She finished the job that my brother had begun and cut off the remaining baby curls, except for one right on top. Yes, I became the little girl with the curl, as described by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very good indeed,
But when she was bad...(well, no need to go there!)
The finished haircut was quite adorable. Just as the one I got yesterday is.
Actually, short hair on a woman is bold and sassy, and the older I get, the bolder and sassier I feel.
Might as well look the part, right?