It was time for a haircut.
After I got this picture of his long “blondie hairs” as he calls them, I made an appointment to get it cut because I don’t like to do it myself. Making the appointment was easy enough. Getting there was another story. Between picking up the girls at school, dance classes and baby naps, there was never a good time. After making and cancelling a few appointments I decided to be brave and get out the scissors. I could always make yet another appointment to fix it if necessary.
He sat on a stool in our living room as I clipped away, watching a movie about the Pittsburgh Penguins and waiting for a lollipop at the end of the haircut. I was happy with how he looked and pleased: I had saved money and time and I had overcome my fear of messing it up. I put the comb and scissors on the table and went about my day.
The next morning I was nursing the baby upstairs while the freshly cut boy played quietly downstairs. I put her in bed and came downstairs to see my boy with scissors in hand and little piles of his blondies all around him.
“Mommy! I’m cutting my blondie hairs! Can I have a lollipop?”
As he registerd the shock on my face, he covered his face with his hands and started to cry. Haircuts are good. Doing things himself is good. Cutting his own hair? Not good.
What a puzzle.
(The results of the do-it-himself haircut are hard to notice if you’re not looking for them, which is a surprise to me given how much hair was on the floor.)