Sunday morning I chatted with a dad of a nearly-2-year-old girl with beautiful blond hair that has yet to be cut. We laughed about our apprehension of cutting our babies' hair.
Half jokingly, I warned him that my friends with daughters have shared that girls, before first or second grade, usually just days before school picture day, cut their own hair. Just to see if that's perhaps a career direction for them. I don't know why.
Sometimes it's just the bangs, sometimes it's more of an all-over cut. Always it takes a genius of a hair stylist to 'fix' it.
I'm remembering such a scene recently on Mad Men when the young Sally did a number on her hair, to a harrowing response from both mom and dad.
I don't recall ever doing it myself, but who knows, and who could tell me now? Plus, the pixie was the cut I was famous for during my youngest years. Not much to cut.
With three boys, I really didn't think I had anything to worry about.
But if you've read any smattering of this blog, you may be familiar with my middle son, TJ. And you already know what's coming.
Yep, the boy with the gorgeous dark brown curls walked into my bathroom this morning with a handful of hair, proudly showing me. Having recently cleaned out hair brushes, I hopefully asked, "Were you playing in the garbage?"
He answered no, bringing the scissors he had in his right hand closer to my eyes, which had yet to be reacquainted with their contacts so early on a Monday.
"No, Mommy, it's my hair," Tj boasted. And to add insult to injury, "Isn't it cool?"
Although I inherited my dad's time-bomb temper (I'm working on it), I am no Betty Francis or Donald Draper. I calmly told him to put the scissors back, throw out the hair, and get ready for breakfast.
And after he left my bathroom, I laughed.
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