The Haircut

parenting fail

We got to a breaking point this weekend, folks.

Rain Man NEEDED a haircut. Necesito un haircut-o. For real. This was no longer an optional activity. Rain Man was beginning to look like the ginger version of Cousin It.

Minus the hat, of course.

I asked him if he preferred having it done with the electric clippers or scissors. Apparently he doesn’t yet understand the concept of self-preservation because he chose the scissors.

I am not a cosmetologist by any stretch of the imagination. Heck, I can barely spell “cosmetologist”. My scissor skills are sadly lacking. At least with the clippers there were guides to keep me on track.  Scissors have no training wheels. And they are sharp. As I snipped at his copper bangs, I remembered the haircuts of my youth.

My mom cut my thick, straight brown hair when I was a kid for the same reason I was about to cut Rain Man’s. We are disgustingly cheap people. It may look like someone combed his hair with a weed whacker, but I saved $15. She gave me Punky Brewster pigtails and a shelf of bangs when I was Rain Man’s age. Typical ’80’s hair, really. Except, I was a wiggly child so my mother never really managed to get the bangs straight. Or fully cut. I was a goofy looking kid with crooked bangs containing random ultra-long strands of hair. Hot.

“Quit wiggling!” I pleaded with Rain Man as I began to sweat. I obsessed over the straightness and thoroughness of the bang trimming. We will not have any pictures of him smiling through bizaro-land bangs! No sir!

I may have obsessed a wee bit too much because the end result with the rest of the hair was, uh, well…

Dead sexy.

Yeah. He’s going to put me in the shoddiest nursing home known to man some day for this hair cut. I will avoid photographing this poor child until it grows out/I sheepishly take him to a real barber.

Bad haircuts are, apparently, hereditary.

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