Sometimes my husband works late. Those are the days I don’t like, because it means I have to get off of work at 5 o’clock, race to pick up Connor from afterschool care, race home to do homework, then send him to the shower while I try to throw together dinner in under 15 minutes. We had one of those nights last week.
Now while I assemble dinner, I send Connor off to the shower. He’s a few months shy of 8, and should be able to handle a basic shower. Except for hair washing. Oh, and soap. I still need to run in and remind him of those things, because the last 873 reminders haven’t sunk in yet.
Now somewhere between the meatballs and garlic bread, it got quiet in the bathroom. I called out to see if he needed help, and he called back that he was drying off and getting PJs on. He then came out of my room and headed to his, to put his clothes in his hamper (yay, he remembered that one without a reminder!). I went into my room to grab something and stopped short. There was an odd little trail on the floor, leading to the bathroom. *alarm bells*
That’s not my hair. It’s not my husband’s hair. And it certainly couldn’t be Connor’s hair because WE JUST HAD THIS ISSUE LAST YEAR. And we agreed that we do NOT cut our own hair, because we are not people with hair cutting skills.
So I asked Mr. Connor if there was something he wanted to tell me.
“Weeeeeeell, my hair was a little poofy on top, so I cut it.”
How convenient that it’s 7pm and too late for me to run him out for a haircut. So that means that he would have to go to school the next day, looking like that. I wrote a short note to the teacher, “Yes, we know what Connor’s hair looks like. Don’t even ask.”
Again I explained why we do not cut our own hair, because you have to go to school to learn how to do it and get a license. Connor wanted to know if you can go to jail for cutting your own hair. I told him that even though some people “should” go to jail for their crazy hair, it’s really not an offense that requires time in the state pen.
The next evening we went straight from school to see if we could salvage what was left of his hair. Connor didn’t seem to mind getting a haircut, although I was sad to lose all the gorgeous curls. Before the haircut he posed outside, with a flower he picked for me (aw, he loves his mama).
The hair stylist informed me that, because of Connor’s flair for cutting his hair down to the nub, we’d have to go with a #1 setting – a military-style buzz cut. Watching the curls get shaved off reminded me of sheep for some reason. I guess because his hair is so thick. (Speaking of sheep, this post is really funny.)
At the end, Connor admired his new look in the mirror and proclaimed, “I look just like a rock star!”
I hope when he’s thinking of rock stars, he’s thinking of this one:
And not this one: