What was your worst haircut?

Despite having little luck with the few threads I’ve started in the past, I started this thread because I’m sure a lot of you have good (well, good for those of us reading them) stories to tell.

When I was a kid, my mom cut my hair more often than not, so I usually had a short bob above my shoulders with uneven bangs. This continued until I started growing my hair out at age 12 (although I managed to grow out my awful bangs at 9).

So share your hair-related horror stories!

When I was 12, I let my mom give me a home permanent. The results were…unfortunate (though I thought I looked slick at the time.)

Once I went to a haircutter (usually my mom cuts my hair, which is fine by me) and she got in a political discussion with my dad while cutting. I’m not saying that she forgot what she was doing, but by the time I got out of the chair my hair was a whole lot shorter than I wanted it to be. And crooked.

My hair doesn’t look good under the best of circumstances, but this was terrible. And this was when I was sixteen or seventeen, so I had to endure high school with that lawnmower job. Bad memories.

In the early 70’s, my short haircut had grown out to something like a shag. It was great, actually, for curling. So, when I went to get it cut, I asked for a couple of inches taken off, but with bottom part cut at an angle (i.e., about 2 inches worth of a shag, at the bottom of shoulder-length hair). The hair stylist cut it straight at the bottom, then took the top layer, and cut it again, straight across, about 2 inches above the bottom layer. I now had a weird, bilayer cut. :rolleyes:

After I got home, and quit crying, I had my mom cut the bottom part off.

I seemed to have some sort of horrible bouffant-pouf going on in fifth grade.

About two years ago I decided I wanted to have bangs again.
My hair was about 24" long at this point and I was about 75% proof. :wink:
My hair was wet and I held it out about 5 inches (I swear!) and snipped.
Some how 5" turned into about 2" and I wore bandanas for the next year.

That was two separate occurrences, by the way…I’m not 9, I promise. :wink:

Man harmless, I hope you’re not 9, or else I might be in a lot of trouble!!
My hairror story is when I was, um… about 9, actually!
I had hair down to the top of my butt, real nice and straight and in good health. I got lice. My mom tried real hard to get the eggs out without cutting my hair, but if you’ve had them you know those suckers hang on like all get out. So she wound up having to cut it ALL off. My hair wound up being at my ears.

My worst haircut was at the age of about fifteen, when I insisted on having it cut very short and not the same length on each side. It was just above my left ear on that side, and just below my right ear on that side. I see the pictures now and I cringe. At the time, I thought it was cool. I’ve been growing my hair out from years of short haircuts and sometimes it’s all I can do to keep from getting it all cut off.

Well, from what I’m hearing, it would seem I have it right now.

Or at least I did. I got my haircut today. I’m all military-licious now. :smiley:

We’ll need photographic verification of that, sir.

When I was About 15, my Dad & I went over to my Aunt & Uncle’s house for some chore or other. When we entered the house, my Uncle John, who was already half in the bag at 10am, greeted my Dad with “who’s that girl with you?” Now my hair, while rather bushy, was less than shoulder length. Anyway, my Dad decided my Aunt should give me a haircut. Now my Aunt Kate, bless her soul, was a gentle woman, but she was nearly blind. She had to wear a pair of magnifying glasses (of the type I’ve always associated with jewelers) while she cut my hair. Needless to say, the results of the cut were less than appealing. Though it’s been 30 years since it’s happened, and he’s been dead for 25, I’m still pissed at my uncle for goading my Dad into getting that haicut. I’m not mad at my Dad, because the way my Mom tore into him when she saw me after the cut was punishment enough.

You’ll get it, either on Monday night or on Tuesday. If I had a scanner, you’d get it sooner, but such is life.

Cool. It’ll be fun to verify your new studliness. Not that you weren’t studly before. Heck. Contemplation of your Halloween pic has fried my brain. Cute guy, green hair, is about all I can come up with right now.

Year: 1963

Mission: My Mom needs to get me ready for a passport picture, deciding that I need a haircut

Background: She’s never done this before, but we’ve got some clippers

Story: She decides that clippers are not really a mystery and that anybody can do it. Well, she can’t. Not on the first pass, anyway.

So, she lowers the barrier and tries for a clean clip again. Hmmmm…, looks a little lop-sided; maybe a clean-up clip will even it all out. What to do about the side with hair versus the side with no hair?

Finally, she’s got all she can get. I return to class the next day as the first absolutely bald 10 year old my fourth grade compadres have ever seen. Rumours rapidly circulated that I was being treated for the Big C (as we called cancer back then).

An untimely event soon unfolded: I ruptured my liver in a bike accident in late 1963, and we proceeded to move to Japan in early 1964.

It occurs to me now that there is probably never a good time to rupture your liver.

So when we arrived in Japan, I was looking a bit sickly, having just spent months in the hospital. The immigration officials noted that, and, with my bald passport picture in hand, decided that I must be some oddly diseased westerner. My father had to go through some gyrations to get me allowed in to the country.

July Third, 1975.

Parris Island, South Carolina.

At least we all had the same bad hair cut.

The One just before my ten-year high school reunion - of course.

Went in for a trim, the guy gave me something just a step above a buzz-cut. :rolleyes:

I had a real buzz cut for a little while, as a kid. The kind that is half step removed from stubble. Being tall for my age and very skinny, I looked like Skeletor. It was awful.

The 2 worst would have to be the one I tried to give myself when I was 8 and one in which the barber cut my hairline so far back it looked like I needed a hair transplant so rather than living with that for the next couple weeks I just cut it all off and started over and let my hair grow back big and puffy.

Not trying to be racist but most white barbers that I have gone to don’t know what to do with my hair and I am only half black.

So many to choose from…the worst?

Well, there was that time when I was sixteen and growing out a frizzy perm. One day I could stand it no longer. My hair was in a ponytail, and I picked up the scissors and whacked that bad boy off. (I can be very impulsive with my hair hatred!) Then I took the elastic out and tried to fix it. Failed…oh how I did fail! Fortunately, it was the eighties, so Mom did what she could to help and I pretended to be a big Flock of Seagulls fan for a few months.

I have always cut my own hair (and I actually get away with it more often than not, practice makes perfect you know) but in my twenties I cut my bangs so short that I decided to just get a crew cut all over so it would look like it was done on purpose. Wasn’t good.
I am a straight female, but it was nice when I accompanied a friend to Disney’s Gay Day that year and got hit on a lot. At least someone still found me attractive!

I have naturally curly hair. My parents had no idea how to deal with it. So one day, my mom tells my dad to get my haircut at the local salon. I was about 8 years old or so.

My dad takes me there, and somehow gets my haircut into what was known in the mid-80’s as a boycut, right to the scalp. Foot-long curls gone, and the tiny 1/4 inch hair is STILL trying to curl.

Worse, I had no earrings or anything, and was kind of a tomboy, so there started to be mix-ups as to whether I was a girl or a boy! It was humiliating!

Now my hair reaches my butt and I give every hairdresser the hairy (haha!) eyeball when I ask her to cut it. “No more than an inch, please.”

This was the same dad, by the way, who put me in green pants and yellow shirt with suspenders. My mother never let him dress me again.