Why I Shouldn't Cut Hair

Okay. So I've always known that one of my deep-seated resentments against my mother has always been that she cut my hair as a child. So, how did it work out in my mind that coming at my six-year-old son with desk scissors and my husbands beard trimmer was a GOOD IDEA?

I told my mother after a most unpleasant experience with a flobee (a flobee being, by the way, a haircutter attached to a vacuum cleaner) that no one would come near my child ever again unless they were licensed by the state to do such things. But an empty pocketbook suddenly made me brave. Oh, how wrong I was.

After half an hour standing in the bathroom cutting and trimming, and pasting and sewing, my child's head looks something like a patchwork quilt. And my bathroom is left looking as if a small animal exploded.

It is part of God's divine plan that a six-year-old boy really doesn't care that patches of hair are longer than others, or that it really looks like someone took a hatchet to his head. He thinks it looks cool. I on the other hand would like someone to kick me.

Please, next time I get such an idea in my head, threaten me with severe bodily harm. And remind me that there is a reason I became a nurse and not a Stylist.

Desk scissors and a beard trimmer. May other mothers be warned.