One day when I was between 5 and 6 years old I was compelled to take a pair of scissors, stick it in the bun my mom had earlier carefully arranged on the back of my head, and snip.

Do I remember why? Absolutely not. I barely remember doing it. I just know that it was something I had to do. There was no question. So I did it and then promptly forgot.

Fast forward to that night when my mom took the pins out of the bun. As my hair came down around my shoulders, 2 chunks of hair by my temples fell to the floor. And when my mom asked what happened, I did what any 5 year old would do and blamed it on my 3-year-old brother.

Fast forward another 15-20 years to me catching my mom saying to someone on the phone “And one time Michael, that little shit, he put scissors in Tara’s bun and cut it”. I had totally forgotten about that story and cut her off to correct her. That’s right. I was the little shit.

He carried the blame for many years, but I don’t feel too bad because there’s still photographic evidence of the mullet I had while the hair grew back.

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