I have cut Blake’s hair today. By which I mean I have taken a blunt pair of shears to it and hacked away like a drunk. It is so, so, so awful. The front is passable, a bit wonky in places but nothing horrendous, but the back is just a cock-up of epic proportions. At least one of us (me) is walking away from this haircut scarred. So traumatised was I by the whole experience – butchering his hair whilst he wriggled and screamed in his high chair because he has a real mental block on haircuts at the moment, that I have guilt fed him treats throughout the day and am now facing an evening trying to get a sugar-jacked toddler to bed. Another woefully moronic move.
It’s a catch 22. Blake does not have the hair of toddler models, long and sleek or ruffled and curly. He has inherited my hair I’m afraid, which can only be described as thick and untameable and crap. He will be fine because, unless he tries to grow it long somewhere along the line, boys’ hair is manageable by virtue of being short. But it had just got to that point where it was bothering both me and him – slightly ratty, a bit sweaty because of being so thick, and growing down over his ears in a bit of a Hobbity fashion. And so I took the scissors to it and now it is short and awful. Neither a good look (although at least now he is comfortable and significantly cooler) and either option my fault, because of my cackhandedness and bad hair DNA.
See. See! I knew that self-congratulatory blog last Saturday was going to come back and bite me. Might have been able to take him to a party, but we will now NEVER BE ABLE TO GO OUT IN PUBLIC AGAIN because of this haircut.
Here he is at the end of the sugarfest. I am off to consume and weep into the gigantic batch of homemade hummus I made earlier (homemade hummus? HOMEMADE HUMMUS?! What in the name of CHICKPEAS IS WRONG WITH ME? Who makes homemade hummus? Such an ARSE.)
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