Parenting: If you can't laugh at yourself, you're doing it wrong.
My sweet Joanna has thick, straight hair like me. It lays in the same direction each day but can have varying degrees of volume depending on how she sleeps on it. Her hair also grows with weed-like speed. Rather than spend $12 for a haircut each month, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
The tools I used: A leaky sippy cup to get her bangs wet, a comb that came in her newborn hygiene kit, and a pair of safety scissors with a dull end and not-quite-as-dull blades. With these three tools in hand, I was ready for success.
I made sure Joanna was positioned in a high chair in front of the TV, eating crackers and drinking water. I doused her head, combed it through, sectioned off half of her hair so I would only be cutting some of her bangs so the rest could grow out. I began hacking away. Starting on her left side, I worked my way over. Her wiggly protests and "No hair, mommy. No hair" while trying to keep her hands out of the growing pile of discarded strands on her tray table provided an artistic interpretation of what a straight line should be. I finished my work, took a step back to admire, and promptly began laughing.
"Jonathan.. do you think I can convince people that Joanna cut her own hair?"
I tried again to even out the chunks.
Shorter.
I tried once again to even out my crooked line.
Even shorter.
I finally stopped before she turned into Mae West.
I successfully gave my child a Spock mullet. She's part Vulcan part Nascar enthusiast.
Before | After
"Daddy, please save me from mommy's artistic vision."