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Dueling Scissors

It’s true.

Some things are better left to the professionals.  Like people who wield a certificate on the wall with their name on it and a shiny seal.

People like hairdressers. With special scissors and combs.  And skill.

Which we’re not.

And which didn’t seem–at the time–the most important criteria.

That our son’s hair had grown into a mushroom with a little tail in the back prompted the hunt for scissors.

Any scissors.

Which we found.  Two pairs.

And which prompted my husband and me to stand our son with his orange, overgrown locks between us and start snipping from both sides with only the closet mirror for supervision.

That our son bounced and tittered around like a squirrel with a jelly bean stash didn’t help positive progress.  That he shuddered at every hair clump that hit his bare shoulders simply meant that his dad’s patience took a flying leap and he grouched, “Stand STILL.”

Only the kid couldn’t.

And so wired on the freak energy of two sets of scissors squeaking through his hair, our son slithered to his knees and bolted for the hallway.

When he returned, it was wearing just his underwear.  And part of a hair cut.

But here’s to victory.  By way of perseverance.

Ahem.

Just don’t look too closely.

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