….And then this happened

Last night I tried to write a blog post. I was struggling to put into words how I feel about the situation in Minneapolis. The anger that permeates all the news regarding race in our country. The helplessness to change anything.

And then I went upstairs to check on my son and was reminded of WHY you never leave him alone for any reason…

This happened because I told him I was going to cut his hair the next day.

I often wonder whether my son is actually listening to me.

Now I know.

He is listening with a vengeance.

And a plan.

Below is a link on Facebook to my reaction to his styling techniques.

If you are struggling to get through depression or the continuing of Covid-19 isolation, or you could just use a laugh, it is my gift to you.

Also, you won’t be feeling so bad about your own hairstyles now, will you?


How can you NOT love this face!

16 thoughts on “….And then this happened

    1. Only if I wanted everything in the house to be the same color. As it is, the kid still writes on most surfaces with indelible marker. I don’t know why the laundry chute says 1842, but apparently, it is a significant date to someone!

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Classic… and nice recovery. My feed is full of Minneapolis posts. One segment of the population has had e-bleeping-nough. But just like every mass shooting or egregious murder of an unarmed person of color, the news cycle will move on and nothing will change. Remember the Vegas shooting? Unbelievable.


    1. I didn’t, but I did get my hair chopped for an inspection so badly that the Drill Sergeant let me go to the beauty parlor to get it trimmed right. That has to be a first.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh my word! Well saved! I’m suffering my own covid hair woes… In the heat we’re having now (mid-90s today) I just can’t stand having hair on my sweaty neck, but it’s too short for a bun or pony tail. So I’ve released my Inner Pippi Longstocking! Not enough for braids, but bunches work too!

    Liked by 1 person

      1. I have a vague recollection that you did, but I just checked and all I can find is a German Shepherd offering me a soggy tennis ball. Even on your worst hair day, I doubt you are that furry!


      2. Much like Hercule Poirot’s indignity at being mistaken for French. As he would say, “I am a Belgie, not a Frenchy!”


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