Who, in this world, hasn't endured growing out a horrible haircut? How many times have you left from the salon crying in a hysterical rage that you were gonna sue the place? When arriving home from your recent appointment have others winced at the sight of you gasping, "Who the hell did your hair, Edward Scissorhands?" Been there.

The older you get, the less you care — you're just happy ya' still have some on your head so you're not mistaken for your bald husband. A totally bizarre, messed up cut when you're young, however, could be devastating to whatever pathetic social life you've vainly tried to establish. I can't tell you how many scissor happy hairdressers have completely butchered my locks over the years. Let's not even mention hair dying because the combination of a bad dye job and cut are beyond what my stress level can tolerate at this moment — I still get a knot in my throat thinking about a mishap I've labeled "the Troll Doll Incident" whereby I came out of the salon looking like a troll doll with fuchsia hair standing straight up. The horror!

My bad haircut days started in Kindergarten when my older brother suddenly decided he wanted to be a barber when he grew up. Since he'd already cut all the hair off all my Barbie dolls, I was the only one left to experiment on. He did the ultimate 'no-no' of running around the house with the biggest pair of sheers in hot pursuit of my head. When I finally ran out of breath and succumbed to his cutting obsession he took every last hair off my head — completely bald. My mother was so stricken at the tragedy she went out and bought me a zillion pink dresses. The poor woman vainly tried to get a barrette to hold on to one lone strand that had escaped his wrath to no avail. I'm getting hives just thinking about it all; probably why I can't wear pink dresses to this day. Needless to say he didn't grow up to be a barber but instead became a rocket scientist for NASA, which is odd considering it's usually the opposite with little boys. They say they want to be a rocket scientist and wind up as a barber instead.

Ever since that bad haircut I've found it hard to really commit to one hairdresser. I try one out, get disappointed, and just move on to the next. I think I've been to every shop in the northeast and will have to start on the west coast now. In frustration I actually took a class so I could learn to cut my own hair. Unfortunately I can never see the back and it always looks like somebody did it and ran.

I don't even trust anyone cutting my own children's hair so I trim theirs as well. I figure why spend $20 for someone to make my kid look like an idiot when I can do it for free. My girlfriend just raises her brow at me when she see's my little guy's Buster Brown bowl cut though. As a result she insisted she was taking him to a barbershop this week so the other kids wouldn't make fun of him. I finally caved and said I'd take him. "No, let me take him, I want to do it," she begged. After much prodding her ulterior motive was revealed: she actually had a crush on the shop owner and wanted to borrow my kid for an excuse to go in there. "You want me to pimp out my kid so you can get a date?!" I sneered. "Yeah, pretty much," she says. I was actually impressed by her new innovative man hunting technique and being I'm also a single mother in the pathetic dating pool I agreed out of curiosity.

What I neglected to tell her is that he doesn't like to get his hair cut and hysterically freaks out when he hears the buzz of the shears. When I try it myself, it's like a wrestling match trying to hold him down and not cut an ear off with both of us sweatin' bullets and growling at each other. This was sure to be entertaining to watch, so I sat outside and laughed at the forthcoming fiasco until a lollipop finally settled him down. She came out with a scowl and just glared at me. "What? No date?" I chuckle. Best money I ever spent on a bad haircut.