Mayhem isn’t an unknown commodity around these joints. I’ve prayed for more Calgon Moments that I could ever count. And boy have there been some doozies since people started calling me Mom. The latest bit of time frozen in my cerebral cortex is a little diddy I’m referring to as Mohawk Mayhem.
A friend comes to my house to cut my hair. It’s much cheaper for me this way, plus I don’t have to worry about taking Parker into a potential petri dish of incubating creeping crud just waiting to hitch a ride home on a warm body. An extra plus is that we can sit on Parker since he hates having his hair cut, and we don’t have to worry about anyone calling DCFS on us. heh. Kidding. Kind of.
Two of my kids, Rigel and the Curly Girly had the brilliant idea to ask my friend to cut Parker’s hair in a Mohawk. Not a Faux-hawk, but a from the top of his forehead to the back of his neck, lizard-looking path of spiked up wild thang.
This never would have happened if I hadn’t been otherwise engaged on the phone ordering our Brave Hero’s medical supplies.
What can I say. I’m not a fan. My kids were so excited and my friend, ever trying to pull me at least a toe’s length into hip, refused to fix it. To prove I can be just as spontaneous as the next Mama, you know, when I have no other choice but to be dragged into it, and so the rock hard picket fence running down the length of my kid’s head remains.
At least until someone decides they want to dye it purple. Then I’ll draw the line. Orange is much more Parker’s color.
When do you draw a line about a hairstyle, a clothing style, etc?