I Heart Cookie Cutters

I am so not qualified to cut hair.

Lorie and I cut Adam’s hair once and it worked out swimmingly.  He went from mad scientist to dapper young man with just a few swipes of the clippers.

Of course we didn’t use MY clippers and therein lies the problem.

I don’t know where Ismael bought these clippers…he’s a bit famous in my circle of friends for buying things from people in gas station parking lots.  Chess sets.  Tennis shoes.  Probably hair clippers.

Adam’s birthday party is tomorrow and wanting him to look nice, I got all inspired to finally use our clippers today.

I did everything right.  I put him in his high chair on the kitchen linoleum.  Combed his hair out into a too long fro.  Wrapped a towel around him to catch the hair.

I did everything right, except stop that nonsense and drive him straight to Cookie Cutters.

Ten minutes later I had a wailing hair coated boy, an irritated husband, a messy kitchen, and a total lack of patience.

Adam looked like a stray dog.  Patchy tufts of hair in places.  Shorn close in others.

What a mess.

Thirty minutes later – bathed, dressed, and in the car on the way to Cookie Cutters.

I don’t remember the hairdresser’s name, but as far as I’m concerned it’s preceded with the title Saint.

She didn’t judge me or laugh in my face.  She studied his head carefully and apologetically said, “it’s probably going to be short.”

“Yeah,” I pointed, “as short as that nasty little place right there.  I’m fine with that.”

Her magical pink clippers removed the stray dog look and transformed him into a cute little boy.

I heart Cookie Cutters.

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