As if it wasn’t enough to get my hair chopped off, I had to further rip out Caleb’s heart by taking his precious Mia in for a little trim yesterday, and boy, did she ever get a trim. The kid has been asking and asking for a short new ‘do, and I felt like Cost Cutters would be a fine place for a little child’s haircut.
I should have known better.
How hard is it to cut hair? I mean, really? When I say, "Just cut the whole thing up to her chin, please", am I being clear enough? No. The answer is no, and now Mia’s got this choppy uneven little bob that makes her look like a mulletted little ragamuffin boy with shaggy dog bangs.
Bangs–what the hell?
Caleb does not like the haircut. And it’s not just because he’s a guy. (As you know, all men have an utter hatred for short hair deep down in the pits of their black souls.) I, too, hate the haircut. I can’t see anything else; not her big brown eyes, not her rosy little cheeks or her mischievious grin. I can’t even hear her anymore. She talks and I only think of her hair. And I want to cry everytime I look at it.
Harsh? Yes. I feel so guilty–guilty for thinking this way and guilty for taking her to get the damn haircut in the first place at the Drunken Bum Salon where apparently you don’t have to actually be a drunken bum to cut hair like one, and as a customer, you never know if the person behind the scissors is smashed or sober, and good luck being able to tell.
Thankfully, Mia is too young to really care; she wanted short hair, she got it, and she’s happier than a bird with a french fry. And of course, Caleb and I have said nothing but good things to her about it: "Oooo, super sassy!" and "Ow, wow, your hair is soooo pretty!" or "You really just love your new haircut, don’t you?"
Why didn’t I speak up while the kid was still in the chair? Listen. Her hair was wet, Merrick was antsy, and Mia was grinning from ear to ear–I couldn’t get a good feel for what it would look like once dry, and I figured, hey, she loves it, that’s all that matters, and so we left. We went straight over to Walmart for a few groceries and that’s where her hair started to take on a life of its own. I panicked and made a beeline for the haircare section, where Mia and I picked out a few ultra-girly barrettes and hairbands.
I might take her back today just to see if someone there could even out her hair. This might involve cutting it even shorter, but that’s fine with me because honestly it can’t look any worse than it does now. And don’t anybody tell me to leave it alone if Mia’s happy with it, because that’s not the way it works this time, I promise.
Pictures to follow.
I took Mia back to Cost Cutters immediately after school today. We pleaded our case with Debra, a glimmer of light and hope in the dark world of hair-fucker-uppers. I’d never seen her before; Debra had beautiful hair. Debra did not wear cut-off jean shorts and flip flops. She was totally understanding. She did a fantastic job of assessing the damage. I wonder where she’d been all my life. Funny story: while we were waiting on Debra, a lady in the chair next to us chuckled and asked if Mia had gotten hold of the scissors at home. Aha! So it wasn’t just us; Mia’s hair was all jacked up, and now we had the opinion of a complete stranger to back us on it. Awesome. Debra did what she could to fix the problem, for the most part, and it was free of charge (damn right)–Mia’s hair is still short and choppy, and it doesn’t lay quite right, but it’s a lot tidier than it was. And Mia is still pleased as punch with it.