Making the Cut

If you know me in person, or have been reading my blog for a while, you know that I have unruly hair. I'm like Carrot Top ... well, except the red hair. And the curls. And the weirdly out-of-place muscles.
(Seriously, WTF is up with Carrot Top? It looks like his head is stuck onto the wrong body. Google him, you'll see what I mean.)

Anyway, I feel the need to apologize to my poor sons, because it appears as though I've passed the "unruly" gene on to them. Both Colin and Cameron (the jury's still out on what kind of hair Coby's going to have) were cursed born with their own unique brands of follicular challenge. Colin's hair is straight as a stick, not a wave anywhere. Here's a perfect example, taken when he was about eight months old:

And Cameron? Well, he could totally sport a Jheri curl, if that ever came back in style.

... For white dudes.

The thing that sucks about having boys is that they have to get their hair cut a lot. Unless they're like teenagers or something and sporting that hideous shaggy 70s-throwback (which, coincidentally, just doesn't work on approximately 85% of the teen boys who wear it). Never having been a man myself (though Lord knows I've fantasized about the convenience of having a penis), I wasn't really aware of this fact until I had my sons - but if you want to keep a short style looking neat and tidy, it takes at least a monthly trim.

And monthly trims = cha-ching! My husband gets his done at this sports-themed place with flat-screen TVs and all the stylists are women and not only do you get your hurr did but then you get a neck massage afterward. It's like the Hooters of haircutting. Needless to say, Curtis likes it (because they do a good job, he claims. Much like he claims to like the real Hooters for their buffalo chicken sandwich *coughcough*) and he always wants to take the boys there. But it's ten friggin' dollars a cut, plus tip, for the little ones. Ridunkulous. By the time Curtis and both the kids got their cuts, it would end up costing like $45. And $45 or so per month for a whole year equals ... well, you do the math.

(... No seriously, you do the math because I suck at numbers.)

Anyway, because I'm a tightwad, I like to cut (no pun intended) costs where I can. Curtis won't let me touch his hair, but by golly, I'm the mom and I can tell my kids what to eat and when to go to bed and that I'm cutting their hair myself. Okay, so now that Colin's older Curtis takes him to the barber too (in reality I'm pretty sure he just thinks the chicks dig the "doting dad" persona) - but I've still got Cameron to force into submission.

Except his curls pose a problem: it's really hard to cut curly hair.

Especially when your skill with scissors is on par with, say, a first-grader.

So I consented for him to get his very first "big boy" trim at Daddy's barber. I figured if they could get me started, I could maintain the look for a while with a few regular trims at home. Right?

... Right?

Anyway, his first cut looked adorable. But then almost instantly, it seemed, he started looking a little shaggy again. So I got out the trusty scissors, plunked Cameron down in front of "Wow Wow Wubbzy" (he adores that show, for reasons unknown to me), and dampened his hair with a spray bottle. And then I started snipping, and the curls dropped off his head in soggy-ish clumps. This wasn't so bad ... until he began crying and brushing my hands away.

"Cameron, stop," I said sternly. "Mommy is almost finished. Just hold still for a minute longer ..."

And then I saw the tiny bead of blood on the top of his ear.

That's right folks, nominate me for "Mother of the Year": I snipped my kid's ear while I was attempting to cut his hair. It wasn't a serious injury, it was one of those "this hurts me more than it does you" type of things, but still.

He has an appointment at the Hooters of Haircuts. Cha-ching.