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I passed by the bathroom of our small house, and noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my sister staring into the mirror, comb in her left hand pulling down her thick, dark bangs, and scissors in her right hand snipping tentatively at the hair covering her eyes.

“Need help?” I asked, noting her confusion.

“You think you could even my bangs? Mom’s been bugging me to get my haircut. I figure if I chop my bangs she will get off my back about getting the rest cut.”

“How much?” I asked, taking the comb and scissors from her hand.

“I guess pretty short – above the eyebrows,” she said with resignation.

I combed the hair that was covering her ears out of the way, leaving the bangs to be cut the only exposed hair. Then I ran the comb under the faucet to dampen it, and ran the wet comb through her bangs.

Smoothing them down, I pulled the bangs between my fingers and started making quick snips vertical to my fingers, making small points of her bangs.

With her eyes closed, my sister couldn’t see what was being done. She stood there quietly as I snipped. In a couple of minutes I have shortened her bangs by an inch and half.

I flipped on the small hair dryer by the sink and quickly dried her bangs, then combed her hair back to the original style.

“See if that is short enough,” I said.

She opened her eyes and stared in the mirror. The hair that was combed down to the bridge of her nose was now almost mid-forehead, but instead of a straight cut across, the bangs feathered to small points – very Liza Minnelli.

“Wow… I like that! Well, that should make Mom happy. Thanks!”

We wipe up her cut hair, scooped everything into the trashcan, and left the bathroom.

“Cut them again in a couple of weeks?” she asked, as she headed to her room.

“Sure, anytime. Let me know.”

Probably like most teenage girls, my sister’s idea of her hairstyle and my Mom’s differed. The shop my mother went to – and therefore my sister went to – was a classic 1960s blue-haired shop, redolent of perm solution and festooned with helmet hair dryers under which women sat in neat rows, idly reading the latest women’s magazines. For a teenage girl, it was hell.

The cuts offered were basic – a couple of versions of nothing below the shoulders and nothing shorter than to the bottom of the ears. Bangs were sheared straight across to the middle of the forehead or higher – depending on the age of the customer.

My sister’s last visit to my mother’s salon elicited a series of complaints about how the stylist took thinning shears to her hair and ended up with “hair all over the floor.”

Sis didn’t openly rebel against getting her hair cut, but she dragged her feet, and found that if she kept her bangs trimmed, my mother was not pushing her to return to the salon.

But, the point was reached, even with my working on her bangs, when the rest of her hair needed attention. My sister usually returned from the salon with some variation of a long layered cut, with the sides to just below her ears and the back around collar-length. But now, the back was creeping down toward her shoulders, and with the over-thinning of her hair from the last visit, she was looking decidedly shaggy and frizzy, as the thinned/chopped hairs started to stick out in the humid summer weather.

“I’m getting my hair done Saturday, why don’t you come with me and we can get yours cut too,” my mom said casually after dinner.

My sister paused, looked at me, then said, “I hated the last cut I got there, Mom. What if Marty cuts it this time? I like the way he cuts my bangs. I think he would be better than that woman at that shop now.”

My mother was always one to surprise. All she said was “That is fine – Martin “ – she always called me by full name – “could you cut your sister’s hair by Saturday? You two work out the details. But if I don’t like it, then I will take her to the salon with me on Saturday.”

This was not a negotiation, a simple statement of the way it was going to be.

No pressure, kids.

Chance, as the saying goes, favors the prepared mind. Unknown to my sister or my mother, my frequent trips to the library had been only marginally to expand my knowledge of vintage science fiction. It had more to do with browsing for new additions to Dewey number 646.72 – hairstyling and cutting.

So I had the basic book knowledge of how to cut my sister’s hair. And my experience with the bang trims gave me the confidence that I could not screw up her hair any worse than her paid – and stodgy – stylist would. But, I knew I needed some things. The scissors I used on her bangs would not work for anything close to precision cutting. I needed clippers to work on her back, decent scissors, a cape, and yes.. .thinning shears. For I had long ago figured out how I wanted to cut my sister’s hair.

It would look stunning on her. It would be very trendy. It would look very cool. And I would love the cut. I wonder if she would? But, that was rather irrelevant that this point. I had been given (as I perceived it) a blank check to cut my sister’s hair. Within boundaries, granted, that being of what my mother would approve of. But this would cover a lot of ground.

This was Wednesday evening. My timeline meant I had to cut my sister’s hair no later than Friday night, so that left Thursday for some frantic shopping.

My hoarded allowance took a major hit as I got the clippers from a discount store, scissors, shears, hair cape and various clips and bands from a salon supply house that “sold to the public.”

Finally, I had everything accumulated. Friday, as dinner was winding down, I asked my sister if she wanted her hair cut tonight. She ran her fingers through the back of her hair, and said after dinner would be perfect – it did need some work.

The “shop” was set up in the basement – the upstairs bathroom was too small for me to maneuver around in, and I r

eally didn’t feel like working on my sister’s hair with my mother hovering around in the kitchen.

I pulled out a stool that I used in my photographic darkroom, and placed it near a folding table that had all the hair tools arranged – clippers plugged in, scissors and clips lined up.

What stuck me was how utterly cool my sister was. She calmly sat down on the stool, glanced at the clippers – clearly a point of interest – but didn’t say a word as I secured the hair cape around her neck.

I handed her a mirror and asked how she wanted it cut.

“It looks like you already have an idea how to cut it. Do it. Whatever you think. I just don’t want to go with mom to the salon tomorrow.”

I combed through her silky, dark-brown hair. Even the ravages of the last cut and thin could not diminish how thick her hair was. I could understand why the stylist would take thinning shears to this mane, but it was an indication the stylist didn’t know what she was doing, and took a cop-out.

I snorted silently to myself. Having read a dozen books on cutting hair, looked at every styling magazine produced and fantasized about this cut hardly qualified me to stand in judgment of a state-licensed cosmetologist. Arrogant snot. Still and all… my sister did have a horrid cut to work through. And the solution would be arriving quickly. My solution, granted, but a solution.

I made a horizontal part at the occipital bone and pinned the rest of her hair up out of the way. The back fell heavily down her neck, shoulder-length. The sides fell to the middle of her neck. Only her bangs showed signs of recent attention, and they now fell to below her eyebrows – the critical point where her hair came to the attention of our mother.

She unresistingly lowered her head when I laid my hand on the top of her head. The clippers nestled comfortably in my hand and made a quiet purr when I flipped the switch. I double-checked that I had the half-inch guide I place, placed the clippers against her neck and moved them through her thick dark mane to the occipital bone.

The new sharp blades sliced easily through her hair, although the tone of the clippers deepened as they struggled a bit through her tresses. Starting at her right ear, I made a series of sweeps, in a few seconds removing six to eight inches of her locks, and watched them tumble to the floor.

I then switched to the quarter-inch guide and tapered and blended the hair half-way up to the occipital bone. Then I put on the eighth-inch guide and blended in the bottom inch. Finally, I took the guide off, and with the bare clipper head, shaved her nape and shaped the outline of her hairline in back.

THAT much was done. So far, so good. Short, but she had a great neck and things were turning out nicely.

I removed the clips that held her hair up, and combed everything through again. With a spray bottle, I wetted the rest of her hair, and picked up the five-inch hair shears.

Using a comb, I lifted the hair up over her ears and snipped. Another eight inches of hair fell away, this time hitting her shoulder and, on the slick hair cape, the severed locks fell toward her lap. For the first time, my sister could see how much hair was being cut. She calmly fluffed the cape and let her sheared tresses fall to the floor.

I repeated the process with the left side. Then, taking my hair between her fingers, I tapered the hair on her sides and worked my way along the back. When I finished that bit of layering, she had a full top from the crown that tapered down to above her ears and blending in with the clippered hair at the occipital bone.

Next I turned my attention to her bangs, and as before, I did quick vertical snips to give her bangs a series of points, rather than a blunt fringe.

The cutting done, I turned on the hairdryer and blew the moisture out of her hair.

When her hair was dry, I combed it back into style, a center part with hair falling to her ears and bangs to mid-brow.

Then, I picked up the thinning shears.

For the first time I saw a trace of apprehension.

“We have gone this far, sis, and it looks great. Don’t worry, this is the cut you should have had last time.”

She didn’t respond, but neither did she jump up and run. Inverting a comb, I quickly worked the thinning shears to increase the blending of the short, clipped layers in her back. Then I moved the comb to her ears, and again used the thinning shears to blend the sides. Finally, I lifted her bangs and feathered her bangs, doing a snip/comb, snip/comb, snip/comb pattern.

Finally, I was finished. And frankly, I was amazed. A shaggy, ragged, tortured mop now fell smoothly against her head, blending perfectly to a beautiful nape, her delicate ears now exposed, but the thickness and luster of her hair betrayed by the full top.

If she weren’t my sister….

I unsnapped the hair cape, brushed away loose hairs, and announced “finished.”

I handed her the mirror and waited for the scream.

My sister looked in the mirror, move it from side to side. Felt the clipped nape, then said softly, “Damn. You did it. This is great! I LOVE it!”

My sister went upstairs for the maternal opinion, while I swept up the mass of cut hair on the floor, cleaned, oiled and put away the clippers and other tools in a tote I had bought for storage.

As I was getting ready to go upstairs myself, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “Something wrong, sis?” I asked, with my back to the stairway.

“No Martin, nothing wrong at all. I was just wondering if you had time for another cut.”

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