I need a haircut.

Guess I'll need to schedule an appointment with my barber.  Oh, wait, she lives in my house!

I've only ever paid for a haircut once.  I paid Susan Warwick $5 when she was in beauty school for me to be a head of hair for her to practice on.  As a kid, my mom cut my hair (mostly).  At that point in my life, getting a haircut was like pulling teeth.  Granted, mom had three boys, who would all need haircuts, so committing to cut hair for one felt like an obligation to cut three heads of hair.  There were prerequisites, like getting certain chores done, mom being in the right mood, and having enough buffer time to properly clean up the clippings.  Once I remember that the stars weren't quite aligned, and I pressured Shara into cutting my hair.  She did.  Okay.   Well, it wasn't great, and I remember at band-camp one of the more sassy fellows gave me quite a bit of grief, "Joseph, what happened to the back of your head!"  Of course, this was the same twerp who saw my birthmark on the back of my knee and said, "Hey Joseph, you've got something big and hairy growing out of your leg!"  Whatever.  Another time I had dad cut it.  He did a decent job, as I recall.

When I went to college, there were always clippers around the dorm.  One of MY roommates pressured me to cut his hair.  I did quite a butch job on him, but he was thankful  (NOTE: NEVER USE SCISSORS TO TRIM ACROSS THE FOREHEAD!).  Then three more roommates were willing to take a chance on me that night.  The last was definitely better than the first.  I discovered that not all hair is created equal.  Some is wiry, some is smooth and silky.  Some looks fine after shears only, others need a longer cut with scissors.  In college, haircuts were traded as favors because we were too cheap to go to a barbershop to actually get the job done.  Through the course of the year, I probably cut hair on 20 different guys, with some of them every six weeks.

Then as a missionary, it got to be a little interesting.  I wanted to look good, but still wasn't spendy to go to the barber.  If my mission companion was neat and tidy, I would teach him how to cut hair through slow and steady lessons.  If he was a bit more of a slob, I would take a pair of mirrors into the bathroom and cut my own hair.  Missionaries need to look good, after all, and I wasn't willing to get a buzz to remedy any problems!

A fresh haircut reveals a beautiful "Missionary Tan" from a white collared shirt!  Tight fade, Elder!

Once I returned, I needed to get another regular, trained friend to be my barber.  I went to the store and bought a nice set of clippers that I thought would do me for a nice long while.  I still use the same ones, in fact.  Jen and I started dating soon after I returned to BYU, so she was my natural choice.  She has told me since that she was absolutely mortified to take the combs, scissors, and shears in hands and try sculpting my hair.  She thought that if she messed up, I would hold it against her and t
hat I'd break up with her.  (Really?)  Or maybe she'd be embarrassed and not want to look at any problems she caused for her boyfriend?  It's getting a bit hazy now.  At any rate, she let me train her, and teach her how to do a decent fade from the sides to the top, and to get a nice clean trim around the ears and neck.

Ever since then, I've had a lovely barber close-by to keep me looking dapper.  Over the decade we've been married, I've discovered that there are starting to be conditions again.  I'm in charge of cleaning up the hair she trims from my head.  I have to catch her when she's in a decent mood to get some hair on her (but there are aprons!)  And I have to catch her when she has enough energy to take a shower or otherwise spruce up.

I think we've pretty much split the clipping duties for our three boys, though I might have the slight edge there.  I also cut Uncle Sean's hair every time I see him, and it seems that I also have regularly cut Uncle Ben and Uncle Spencer's hair too.  And I've cut Scott's hair.

So.  We're now 14 years since I cut my first head of hair in fall 1999, and I've come quite a way.  I wouldn't say that I'm "best in class" or that I've reached my 10,000 hours to be a master, but I do quite well.  [Recall there's that idea from Malcolm Gladwell's 2008 bestseller Outliers, where he popularized the "10,000-hours rule," which posits that it takes about 10,000 hours of practice to become an expert at any competition, from violin to basketball to Halo. It was a powerful idea, based on several studies, and put some evidence behind the "practice makes perfect" argument for any skill.]

What's more, I feel good when I'm doing it.  It feels good to look good!  And it feels good to help someone else look good.  As an aside, have you ever noticed how nice it is to drive a clean car, have a nice crisp shirt, or have freshly cleaned teeth?  I don't think these cases are necessarily equivalent to vanity or foolish pride, but perhaps more along the lines of self-respect.