First (Non-Parental) Haircut

In moving back to Berkeley I moved in with an engineer, a physicist, and a prospective nursing student.  Now, not all stereotypes are right, but not all stereotypes are wrong.
This weekend, I participated in Eugene’s (the physicist’s) first time having his hair cut by someone other than his mother.
He is twenty-three years old, and he has spent all twenty-three years getting hair cuts from his mother.  I have been trying for years to get him into a salon, but with a price tag above the accustomed “free,” it was a failing proposition.
Even the concept of someone else buying him a haircut was met with extreme skepticism.  Maybe once he has been weened off mother-provided hair cuts, the concept of having a professional cut his hair will be less of a leap.  Maybe.
Still, when I first said “Fine, will you let me cut your hair then?” I really wasn’t expecting a “Why not, you seem like you care more than I do.”  An accurate sentiment that led to a rather terrifying project.
I didn’t realize just how terrifying, until I was standing in front of him, scissors in hand, and my vague misgivings of “I don’t actually know what I am doing” bloomed into full blown “Oh god, don’t fuck up.”
Luckily, I was rather more concerned with the outcome than he was, and I did (eventually) manage to overcome my paralysis and set into things with the hair-dresser-provided advice “cut into the curl.”
The cut did have some rough patches.  There was a “Wolverine” phase:
Followed with a little bit of a Rick Astley look after I managed to finger comb all of his curls out.
But, after a shower to set the curls to right, I don’t think it turned out half bad.  Before:
 At the very least, he no longer has the same haircut as my 2 year-old nephew.

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