A few weeks ago, Mommy decided that I looked way too mulletish and decided I needed a haircut. Being the
cheap-skate thrifty mama she is, she decided she was going to do this herself. She bought a fun pair of haircut scissors, a new book to keep me occupied, and even let me sit on the counter while she attempted her work. But haircuts hurt. Like scissors stabbing your eyeballs. I mean, things FALL OFF your body. No way, woman! NO WAY. So after throwing the tantrum of the century, all attempts at haircuts were through.
PTSD is a real thing, people. I quit sleeping through the night. I fought bedtime. I even came down with real illnesses. Then, it seemed haircuts were all around me. Everyone was getting a haircut. My friend Bear (that’s his real name) got taken to get a haircut. He cried for 45 minutes. It was so uneven his Mommy and Daddy had to hold him down and shave it. He still has the shakes whenever he hears “BUZZ”. Then Mommy and Daddy went to get a haircut. They were gone for 2 days! They apparently even checked into a hotel overnight to recover (I got to stay with Grandma and Grandpa! Hi, guys!)
But, if Daddy can get a haircut, so can I, right? I mean, Daddy is like my favorite guy and I want to be just like him. So, I began the recovery process.
First, I began chanting, “cut cut” all day. Then, I held the scissors. Then, I let Mommy put them close to my head. Finally, on the eve of March 14, in a desperate attempt to avoid bedtime, I sat up from a groggy slumber at 9:45 pm, and told Mommy “cut cut”.
Mommy: You want a haircut? (incredulously)
Me: Yeah! (with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm)
Mommy: Bring me the scissors. This kid is acting crazy again. (Ok, she maybe didn’t say that.)
And there, in my bed, the locks fell. Sure, there’s a really bald patch in the back, and right side is still a bit longer than the left, but it’s done. I did it. And I didn’t cry.
Me: I wan Daddy calk calk Pop Pop cut cut? (aka I want Daddy to Skype Grandpa to show him my haircut!)
Mommy: Go to sleep you crazy kid. I’m tired and I have to wash your sheets. Aaagghh. (Okay, she didn’t say that either, but she didn’t let me Skype Grandpa.)
For the next few days, anybody who was lucky enough to cross my path got to hear all about my “cut cut”. And now you did, too. The final phase of recovery is over. I’ve shared my story. Life is hard.
P.S. I want new genes. I have Daddy’s receding hairline and Mommy’s front cowlick. I’m screwed.