When you walk into the kitchen and find five snips three inches long of brown hair, it only takes a survey of the heads about you to know who done it. Getting them to fess up is another matter.
Me: This is your hair. It's your color. Why didn't you come to me to get the pony tail out?
Child with oddly shaped hair: I didn't cut it.
Fear strikes my heart as I envision another child being perhaps involved in this process. Me: Then who did?
Child with bad hair cut: My hair isn't cut.
I take the pieces and show how they fit exactly where her ponytail that I fixed for her this morning complete with a bow to prove that her hair is in fact no longer attached to her head.
Child shuts eyes and screams louder. Stop bothering me!
I hold up small plastic scissors also left at the scene of the crime. "These are yours."
She stomps off into a corner.
Bad cop is not working, switching to good cop. "Did your ponytail bother you?"
She nods sorrowfully.
"Why didn't you come see me?"
"I couldn't find you."
Now I was in the living room or my bedroom with the obnoxious task of laundry so it is likely that she simply avoided where I might be for fear of being coopted into service or she simply had a problem and decided to solve it herself --most likely.
"Why didn't you find your sisters or brothers? They could have helped you."
"I know. But I had the scissors. It was fun."
New rule for child: Cutting is only for paper. New rule for me: Hide the scissors and she's never getting ponytails again.
2 comments:
O can't tell you how impressed I am that you own scissors!
reminds me of a time when my brothers (both with those 1970's bowl cuts) were playing with some farm animal toys. Older decided they needed hay for the animals. Younger went to bed that night with a 2 inch gap in his bangs.
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