Bad Habits Die Hard

When boredom flaps its wings this-a-way
I often turn to a bad habit that
is particularly irksome to my mother.

I go to the bathroom with the kitchen scissors,
and lop my hair off.

Mother doesn't like this
because mother was trained in the art of hair
at the Sassoon schoolery, no less
and mother thinks that my DIY jobs
reflect badly upon her.

But who cares? Mother is not here.

So now I have no mullet
I have in its place a bob

Don't know what the back looks like though,
don't have eyes at the back of my head.