Hairum-scarum.

It was with some trepidation and yet enthusiasm that I approached the task of doing what acclaimed fictional moron Forrest Gump once warned everyone against: "Do not try to cut your own hair."

Armed with my wife's hand mirror, my electric razor, and my new Chinese-made "professional" hair clipper (that's what the box says), I faced the bathroom and steeled myself for the task of cutting off my quarantine-distress tresses.

The easiest way to do it would be to get scared and trim my upstanding hair, but I am not a cartoon character.

Being a man, I had to wait until I was alone the house. Why? Because when a man wants to do something that has the possibility of being a complete disaster, he has to wait until he is assured of being alone. Meaning, no wife present. Because if she knew I was planning to do this, she would have started to make rational arguments, like:

1) The barber will be open in a few weeks, and I know it will be a mob scene for a while, but so what?

2) Who cares if your hair is a mess? You work from home and we're not allowed to go to church. Everywhere else you can wear a cap.

3) If you must do this, let me cut your hair, maybe outside where it won't make a mess and all the neighbors can see. It'll only take an hour or so.

4) Haven't you watched enough episodes of AFV where children get hold of Daddy's clippers and take big chunks out of their hair? You want to look like that?

There's no point in trying to reason with a man determined to try something stupid. She ought to know this by now. She grew up with a dad and brothers, and she and I have been together a long time. Why does she have to be so reasonable?

So I set to the task. I put a trash bag in the bathtub floor to protect the drain, since I didn't want hair flying hither and thither (especially thither). It was go time.

It seemed easy enough on the YouTube video I watched, but that guy wasn't trying to turn a faux hippie balding mess into a crew cut. At first it seemed good. The hair at the base of my neck was coming up easily, but I was pushing the hair above it out, and when I checked my progress it looked like I was wearing a hair hat. I realized that short strokes were the way to go with this clipper, and kept at it, being careful not to drive it into the scalp and create more bald patches than nature had already provided. I trimmed the back of my neck and cut down the sideburns too, and used the scissors provided with the clipper to get the loose bits.

Overall I was satisfied. Shorter than I expected, but it felt like freedom. It took about twenty minutes, but I did end up with a uniform cut, at least as far as I could tell with the mirrors. The hair went in the garbage can; I took a shower to get rid of any little hairs, and then waited for my wife's return and the accompanying shriek.

On the whole, she took it well.

Dramatization

You guys know that horrified look. "You quit your job?" "You bought a dog?" "You bought a motorcycle?" "You sold the house?" "You quit your job and sold the house to buy a dog and a motorcycle?" "You cut your own hair?" That look.

Once the shock wore off, she admitted I did a not terrible job, although she doesn't like it that short because she thinks I look like a During Treatment patient in an ad for Memorial Sloan Kettering. also, I gouged a little too deep going sideways on one side, but I barely could tell. Of course she asked why I didn't let her do it. I explained that a man sometimes has to do something dumb and don't cotton to no womenfolk telling him otherwise. That also did not go unchallenged.

Anyway. the damage is done, and I think it's okay. If it grows in funny I still have the clippers. And a number of baseball caps. So all is well.