Why Children and Scissors Don't Mix

A few days before we moved out of the apartment, I was chuckling to myself, remembering a pair of girls I babysat back in the day who had cut themselves bangs with their mother's pinking shears. I was so happy that my kids had skipped that phase somehow.

Ha.

HA HA.

That night, I heard Miss Bubbly say to The Eldest, "No, cut it here" or something to that effect, followed by a snipping noise. Suddenly, all the evidence from the past few days came crashing down on me--what looked like a lock of hair on their bedroom floor; The Eldest seeming to have shorter hair in the front in a couple of places; the constant, "Momma, can I borrow the kid scissors?" The Hub and I both moved very quickly into the kitchen and found the culprits trimming each other's hair with the kitchen scissors.

There were lectures. There were tears. There was a removal of ALL scissors from the vicinity of the formerly assumed trustworthy-with-such-things children. And then there were the haircuts.



(pulled to one side, the way I like it)


Miss Bubbly had seen her cousin's brand-new back-to-school haircut and wanted something similar, so we came up with this:




Here's The Boy, who got a trim because his hair was hanging INTO his ears:


The moral of the story? Moving stresses out ALL of us, and we take it out on each other's hair.

The end.