I have had a fringe since I was 15 years old. I will never forget this life-altering haircut. For years before it I had been suffering lingering effects from a bob cut I received unwillingly in primary school.
You were not a cool person if you had a bob as an adolescent in the early 2000s. But finally, my hair had grown sufficiently for styling, and I got it cut to sit neatly on my shoulders with front bangs.
Suddenly, boys were asking me on dates. My social status levelled up. I had transformed my identity overnight, going from Lord Farquaad in Shrek to Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.
Flash forward to my 30s, and the fringe remains my safety blanket. It is my identity. My friend, and sometimes, my foe.
It is my friend when it is fresh and fabulous after a haircut, sitting perfectly on my eyebrows. Then, inevitably, I let it grow out so long it becomes more of a side partthat sits on my eyes or flows behind me in the wind, like a shire horse with a poorly cut mullet.
There are two reasons I let it come to this. One: the cost of living. A fringe cut may only cost $20, but this is $20 I do not always have in this economy.
And two: Who has the time to schedule, book and attend an appointment to get your fringe cut? Certainly not someone who is both lazy and has a full-time job.
Describing this anguish to a colleague, I was presented with an obvious solution. Why don’t I cut my own fringe?
Why, indeed! I have hands. I have a mirror. What’s stopping me? All I need to do is overcome my fear. And learn how to cut a fringe.
I ask some friends with fringes how they manage their styles. One says they cut their own fringe “only once” and “never tried it again”.
Others say their hairdressers offer free fringe trims – something I wish I had shopped around for before embarking on this journey. But it is too late.
Online I discover there are many techniques for self-cutting a fringe.
There is the twisty technique, where you pull the hair into a split twist before trimming. The sticky tape technique, where you secure the hair you want to cut with tape across your forehead. The bowl cut (shudder) technique, the method applied for the terrible haircut of my youth.
One video runs for less than a minute and makes the whole thing sound very easy.
“OK, time to trim these crooked-ass bangs,” the hairdresser says. She sections her hair into two and does some “point cutting”, holding the shears at an angle rather than straight across.
I decide to combine point cutting with the twisty technique, trying to not get too concerned about a Google AI disclaimer that says “cutting your own hair, especially fringe, can lead to uneven results”. All I need now are supplies.
I head to a salon wholesaler and pick up a comb and a pair of scissors that don’t cost $150.
“This will be fine for a fringe, right?” I ask the manager with a nervous laugh. “Well, it depends,” he says. “These are thinners. Do you want to thin the hair?”
I stare at him blankly, my mouth slightly open like a fish.
“Do you want to thin the hair or cut the hair?” he presses.
“Cut … the hair?” I reply.
He grabs a different pair and asks me if I’ve ever cut my fringe before.
“Yes, of course!” I say, not adding that I was a teenager and ended up looking like a low-budget Grimes.
“You’ve got to be careful,” he says. “They’re very, very sharp. Don’t cut anything else with them.”
Panicking a little now, I call my partner, hoping for reassurance.
Fatigue in his voice, he says: “It’s famously difficult, isn’t it?”
“Lots of people end up having really bad looking fringes.”
I ask him if he will still love me if I look like a low-budget Grimes again. “Of course I will,” he sighs.
With that reassurance, I lay out some newspaper in front of my mirror and open a YouTube video of a very enthusiastic hairdresser to copy his twisty technique. I comb my fringe into one triangular piece. My hands tremble with anxiety as I twist once, and start to chop.
My dog sits next to me, bemused.
When I untwist it looks … fine. Pretty much the same. I twist again and chop off more, getting into my point cutting, feeling more reckless. I brace myself, but it looks relatively even.
I part it and gather up loose strands, trimming it back to sit on my eyebrows. I think I’m done. And I don’t look terrible. It’s not the best haircut I’ve ever had, but it’s not the worst by any means.
Thank you, YouTube. Thank you, twisty technique. Would I do it again? Now I have the scissors, there’s no stopping me. Perhaps I’ll never visit a hairdresser again.