When I was four, my mom trimmed my long blonde hair in preparation for an Olan Mills picture session. Don't remember much about getting my picture taken, but I do remember coming home and seeing scissors left on the back of the toilet, gleaming in the glow of the nightlight. Mom was busy making fried rice in her electric skillet. Our Irish setter, Bridget, was napping under the table. I grabbed my brother and we joined her. And I brought the scissors. I cut his hair, the hair above my right ear, and the hair on Bridget's left flank. My mom lifted the tablecloth and found us. She called, "John!" and began to cry.
Fast forward, 33 years...this morning, I french-braided my Bug's hair into two braids.
Then, fateful mistake...Sweet Man and I were napping (I know~I already feel guilty,) kids were playing. Bug walked into our room, complaining about wanting to take her braids out. I could see little wisps of hair as she struggled with a comb. I thought, "Ahhh, I thought those braids would at least last the day." I began to undo her braids, but hair was coming out in my hands. And then I looked closer...the wisps were not escaped hairs, they were cut hairs....AAAAAACCCCCKKKKK! The scissors were still in her hand.
The little imp had the forethought to bring the scissors (which she had to climb on a stool to reach) and the wastebasket from the downstairs bathroom, upstairs into her room. I found it with clumps of hair in it. And that's when I cried. And so did she.
With his wits about him, Sweet Man retrieved his clippers and a stool and was ready on the porch to finish her job.
She thinks she looks like her Mimi. I think Mimi would like this new do.