This is Emie’s after her first and second hair cut. Yep, see did it. Actually she did it back on March 31st, but I’ve been so traumatized, that I haven’t been able to talk about it. Let alone make fun of it.

So I’m on the phone with my dad. I hang up and go to find the kids. They enviably disappear every time I’m on the phone, I think the phone ring is their code, for lets go find some trouble. This works really well for them because when the phone rings, it’s usually work. You know someone in crisis or trying to get an appointment. So what better time to throw yourself on the ground kicking and screaming, get naked and run out side, or cut your hair? Anyway, as usual, I digress.

I go to Jack’s bed room, and the door is lock. I knock and yell and he opens. I enter yelling, “if you ever lock that door again, I will remove it from the . . . AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” (That is a direct quote just in case you were wondering) There are locks of curls all over the floor. I fall to my knees and begin picking them up, yelling (some more) “what have you done?” To which Jack hides (in plain sight, he just sticks his face in the corner while repeating “she can’t see me, she can’t see me” if you say it, it makes it true, right?) and Emie comes to hug me and tell me, “it’s okay mommy”. UH . . . NO IT’S NOT! I promptly call a stylist friend of mine, we’ll call her Nicole, because that’s her name. She proceeds to talk to me like she’s talking someone off a bridge – “It’s. okay., take. deep. breaths., I’m. opening. my. appointment. book. now., can. you. make. it. here. in. 20. minutes.?” Can I? Sure it’s across town, but this is an emergency, the police will just have to understand!

So I load up in the SUV, (yes damn it, I am a cliché suburban mom, now will you just focus on the story?), and fly across town to Nicole’s salon. Once there, Nicole blends the best she can, all the while telling me it’s really not that bad, but by the way, these curls won’t be staying once cut off, so we shouldn’t take any length off, and there’s no charge. (I guess there are some benefits to being unstable, I’ll have to remember that when I’m in session).

Now here I am with my mullet daughter and everyone keeps asking me why I cut her hair. Once and for all: I DIDN’T. SHE DID. And QUIT ASKING ME!, at least until I’m far enough through therapy to deal with it! I guess I’m not ready to talk about it after all.

Please disregard this post.