Preschool…The OTHER Higher Education
I’ve been using scissors for decades. My first memory of scissors was when I cut my cousin’s hair with pinking shears when we were toddlers. My aunt wasn’t happy, but it really wasn’t my fault. Since I had used packing tape to style my cousin’s hair (we couldn’t find barrettes) I had no choice but to do surgery on her blond tresses. Unfortunately, I had to cut her hair rather short, which turned out to be a non-issue. They had to shave her head anyway when the doctor stitched up her scalp due to the big gash I inflicted on top of her head. I was frantically trying to get rid of that darn tape before any adult could figure out what we were doing. That’s also when I learned that even the smallest head wound hemorrhages like a severed limb. Nothing gets adults riled up quicker than a bald, screaming child with blood spewing down her face and her precocious cousin chasing after her with scissors in one hand and a detached golden braid in another. Who knew? I was only three.
As an adult, I feel I’m quite the expert with scissors. So image my bewilderment when a four-year-old at my son’s preschool told me, “You’re not doing it right,” as I was cutting out the outline of my hand drawn on brown construction paper (we were making turkeys).
“What do you mean, I’m not doing it right?” I shot back.
“This is preschool,” she retorted, “we don’t hold scissors like that.”
“Like what?” I was now fully engaged in an argument I could never win.
The unabashed toddler took the scissors and showed me how to cut paper. At this point I could see where she was coming from. I was holding the scissors wrong (upside down, as a matter of fact), but it worked for me. My mother is left-handed, and even though I’m right-handed, I do a lot of things backwards because my mother taught me that way.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of fun to be different?” I asked, trying to defend myself.
The little girl thought about this for a moment. “Doesn’t it hurt your fingers to cut like that?”
“No,” I replied sheepishly, and then tried to hide the big, red, bump that was created on the side of my index finger from holding the scissors wrong for so many years.
“Here,” she said knowingly, “I’ll show you.” She put the scissors in my hand the right way, and then moved my fingers up and down. The scissors inched forward, leaving perfectly cut paper in their wake. “See how easy that is?” She beamed with pride. “Now you try it.”
Here’s the thing. I didn’t want to try it, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it, or at the very least I’d look like a goof.
“It’s okay.” She encouraged, sensing my reluctance.
Seeing no way out, I took a deep breath, and then slowly guided the scissors around my paper turkey. Things went fairly well…until I got to the first sharp turn. I lost my grip, the scissors slipped, the blades came down, and instantly chewed their way through my left index finger. Blood gushed, surprising both my little instructor and me.
“I think I’ll go play in dress-ups,” she quickly said, and disappeared. I grabbed the nearest thing to stop the bleeding, which unfortunately was a Clorox wipe. Searing pain shot up my arm to the part of my brain that stores all that colorful language usually associated with sailors and rap musicians. It took all my strength not to let any of that verbiage leak out. My constraint almost caused me to have a stroke.
After the doctor sewed up my finger, I called my cousin and told her what happened. “Are we even?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” She replied. “I still have to comb my hair a certain way to cover the scar.”
“But now I know how to use scissors. I can cut your hair without maiming you.”
“Oh, really? And just where did you get this newfound knowledge?”
“At preschool. I finally got to go. I guess it’s never too late to enroll in higher education.”
