My mom cut it

I have this issue with my hair. It is unruly and I’m pretty sure that it is planning a coup to take over my entire head so that I will look like Cousin It or that freaky chick from The Grudge. This week I was so fed up with it that I was almost tempted to cut it myself. Fortunately I remembered the follicular disaster of 2001 and I resisted the impulse to make myself look like Jeff Bridges from Dumb and Dumber. I was stressing because I my hair was driving me insane and I kept referring to myself as “Scraggly Ann.” Unfortunately, money is a tight right now and will be for a while so a salon visit was out of the question and I only trust my hair with people I know - people who will flatter it and get its cooperation long enough for them to cut it and run away before it turns them to stone. However, desperate times call for desperate measures so I asked my mom to cut my hair for me. This is a HUGE leap of faith on my part. My mom has not been allowed to touch my hair since she gave me a mullet in the sixth grade.
The haircut started out fine, a harmless snip here a harmless snip there. Next thing I know she has this intense look on her face, the kind of look my nephew gets when you feed him too much cheese. She was upset because she couldn’t get the sides even. She kept cutting and cutting until the topmost layer looked like Moe from the Three Stooges and the bottommost looked like Jane Fonda’s hair from Klute with the middle layers striking out in all directions as a form of protest. In order to cease the hair slaughter, I convinced her it looked fine and ran and hid the scissors. The next day I stopped by my mom’s office so she could see how my hair looked after I applied every hair product known to man to my scalp. Her entire office laughed, including my mother and offered suggestions on how to fix it. At one point my mother grabbed the scissors from her desk and I ran out of that office faster then Hoshie from toys that don’t plug into the wall. I’m hoping that I learned my lesson, but knowing me and my inability to remember what happened five minutes ago, my hair will probably be subject to her scissors as soon as the memory of “Moute” has faded.