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Needless to say, I didn't get a tip.

I did something today that I, as a mother who wants to be loved by her son in future years, swore I would never do.

I bought clippers and cut Henry's hair.

A friend of mine said that she cut her son's hair and gave the following advice: as long as you use the guards, it's foolproof. You cannot screw it up.

Famous last words.

Actually, the haircut turned out OK. Looking at it while he was in the bath afterwards, I noticed a couple spots that were a little longer than their corresponding spots on the other side of his head. And his little sideburns weren't quite even.

But it was the process that turned into a nightmare of near catastrophic proportions.

Mistake #1: I didn't cover him in any sort of cape. So all his little and not-so-little hairs (wispy, babyfine and scratchy like a million straight razors, if you fell victim to his blood-curdling shrieks) went all over him, under his shirt, down his shorts, up his nose, in his ears, piercing his eyeballs, embedding themselves underneath his fingernails. And so on.

Mistake #2: I thought I'd trim up a few edges with the scissors at the end. Yeah. You see already where this is headed, don't you. I snipsnipped one time too many and a bit of his rosy chipmunk cheek caught itself between the very tip of the scissor blades. His hand flew up. My first words of comfort were: "Henry, it's ok. It's not bleeding." That's when he started screaming uncontrollably on the back deck where we were holding this little event, for all the neighbors to see (and call the cops on us).

Mistake #3: My one word of warning -- don't clipper your kid's hair after he's been to church, on a 4-mile-bike ride, gone grocery shopping, and gotten himself a nasty sunburn on the back of his neck because his mommy forgot to slather it with sunscreen (when was the last time we even used sunscreen? excuse me for forgetting that one little spot...the one spot most affected by falling clippered hair, wouldn't you know). He was beyond exhausted.

You should see what Henry usually does when he goes to the local snipper-clipperish franchise for a cut. He hops up in the chair, comments about the cool cape with puppies and cats on it, flirts with the stylist, giggles at the ticklish buzz of the clipper, grins at and chats up the others getting haircuts, and asks politely for a sucker at the end of the visit. He's been going to the same place for haircuts since he turned one -- and he needed a shear long before that, my little monkey-boy. (He'd better enjoy the hair while he has it...have you seen his maternal grandpappa's head? Bald since age 18. I'm not joking.) And he hasn't cried since the very first haircut.

Until I made him cry today. I made him cry and I forgot the sunscreen. Scarred for life. The only thing that could make it worse is if he gets some "geez, who cut your hair?" comment from someone at school. Of course, last week, they designated one day as "crazy hair day." Maybe they'll just think he's a little behind.

Despite the tears and trauma, I must have done something right. Tim says he wants me to cut his hair tomorrow. And I don't think there's any way I can make a mistake. He's the one making the mistake. He wants me to buzz it all off, as short as I can get it.

I'm going to be the one crying.

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