Don’t Run With Scissors

My Mom always told me that. “Margaret! Are you running with scissors? How many times do I have to tell you NOT to run with scissors?!?” I never actually counted the amount of times, but I’m pretty sure it’s more than a few dozen. I was a reckless child. I never wore shoes, I tried teaching myself gymnastic moves, I climbed trees, and I ran with scissors.

I always thought Mom told me to stop because I’m a klutz and would inevitably trip over a doorstop or pet and plummet to my scissory death. Now I know better. Perhaps Mom was trying to tell me that when scissors are involved, it’s best not to do anything rash.

She would, of course, advise against my latest impulse decision.

While driving home yesterday, I sat at a stoplight, playing with my hair as always, examining the tips, and making sure I didn’t have any split ends. I grabbed a chunk at the top of my forehead, pulled it over my face and thought for a moment, “I think I would look good with bangs.”

Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of my mirror, asking myself, “What have I done?”

Cutting your hair on an impulse, I have since decided, is not as good an idea as one might think. But that’s the problem with me. I seem to do things impulsively.

When it comes to things like studying and planning for the future, I’m as freakishly meticulous as possible. While applying for internships last year, I kept two spreadsheets, multiple manila folders, and a clipboard dedicated to the task. My textbooks are usually lined with Post it notes, and checking off an item on a to-do list is about the best natural high I have ever experienced.

But if I decide on a whim that it would be fun to, say, jump off a roof in Georgetown, I’m gonna jump. And if I’m on the highway, I’m gonna speed. Maybe it’s because I have no patience. Maybe it’s because I’m just a pain in the ass. Either way, I tend to upset my mother (who I refuse to tell about the Great Shearing Incident of 2007 until she sees for herself in about a month) with my impulses.

But who can blame me for this one? I mean, bangs are in, right? Just think Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada. She’s got that whole unnaturally-pale-skin-with-chunky-bangs thing going on. And as someone cursed with permanently eggshell skin, I figured if she can make it work, so can I. Bad call, Maggie. Bad call. I’m no Anne Hathaway, except for maybe in The Princess Diaries, when she falls off the side of her chair while trying to learn how to cross her legs… that’s got me written all over it.

So, in short. If I can offer just a couple pieces of advice that I have recently learned the hard way, I would say:
1.) Patience is a virtue. Try a bit harder than me to be virtuous.
2.) Leave your hair to people trained in that field.
3.) Just because something looks uber-cute on a celebrity does not mean we should adopt it as our own. [see skinny jeans, big sunglasses]


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