Before I dive into this wonderful story about a recent learning experience, I believe there are a few things you need to know about me. Some odd but important things.
Well, important to the story. These tidbits of information are not necessarily something you will need to survive, should the zombies finally rise up in their attempts at becoming the dominating species on the planet.
Did I say zombies or peasants? I meant something else. The Smurfs. If they rise up against us, there’ll be no stopping them.
Creepy little blue fingers…
But I digest. Digress. What’s with this keyboard?
Anyway, to begin with, I cut my own hair. I have since college. I’ve done this to save money and mostly because I’m actually pretty particular about how my hair looks.
Every now and again I will venture into the local “Fantastic Sams” or other named barber shop (as a kid, I loved going to Pete and Mac’s to get my hair cut… but unless you’re from Fairfield, Illinois, I doubt you’ve ever even heard of Pete or Mac, so I suppose that isn’t relevant to the story here today). Often times, these haircuts run me around thirteen dollars.
For that amount of money, I could buy a pizza and have a nice night watching a baseball game and yelling at the t.v.
Worth it.
Then, I became a dad.
Things were going swell with this. In fact, I recently cut my hair into a pretty sweet looking mohawk. Yeah, I said sweet. If you weren’t able to see it, you’re probably rolling your eyes or laughing at me. That’s fine, I know when I look good.
Well, my wife said it looked good and her opinion will trump yours when it comes to how my hair looks one hundred percent of the time. Mostly because she has a better sense of style than me, something she reminds me of often, and mostly because I pity her for having to stare at the rest of me the rest of the time.
Saturday, I was cutting my hair with the door to the downstairs bathroom open.
That’s the first clue, ladies and gents. If you cut your hair, and have a two year old in your home, do yourself a favor.
Never.
Do.
This.
Ever.
Ever.
Ever.
EEEEEEEEEEver.
Never, under any circumstances, cut your hair with the door open where any two year old daughter of yours can run in and hit you in the knee and shout “POTTY!”
Because, hey, she’s wanting to use the toilet. Something we’ve been trying to get her to do for a good half a year at this point.
Frankly, this is the consequences of me just being sick of changing her poop-filled-pampers. Seriously starting to think they come with magical turds in them that just appear when you finally get comfortable in your desk chair and begin to blog... see what I mean?
Nevermind.
So there I was, clippers in hand, trimming up the side of my noggin when pop, bam, pow! “POTTY!!!”
This did not, whatever you may believe, cause me to flinch and cut too much off the top. Nope. I’m a good, responsible dad. Being such an upstanding father, I helped my daughter sit down on her potty, where she actually didn’t sit but did some sort of hovering maneuver above the seat while she grunted, stood up, and watched as I again pulled up her pampers and pants and sent her on her merry little way back to Sesame Street. Or wherever a two year old’s imagination takes them as they frolic about the living room with their stuffed Cookie Monster.
And off she went.
And off I went back to the sawing off of my hair.
Except I just realized something. She said, and I quote, “POTTY!” Which means, she knows when she has to go. Which means we just made a large step forward in our potty training process. Which means soon, no more money wasted on diapers. Which means, and I hope you’re following my thought process here, more nights sitting on the couch with a mouthful of food yelling at Mariano Rivera for blowing the game in the bottom of the 9th. Don’t talk to me about that. Still angry.
I mean, bases loaded when you’ve just tied the game? Whatever. He’s still the greatest closer of all time. I’m moving on.
Ahem.
My concentration was broken on my hair. I started trimming a little here, and a little there, more than I intended… and before long my mohawk was about 90% too thin and I looked ridiculous. Especially since the line of ‘hawk was not clearly in a zig-zag off to the left side of my skull.
I cut the whole thing off. I felt ridiculous.
And though I still love her and would move mountains with my bare hands if she were ever in danger, I blame the little girl squatting blanks into her plastic toilet.
Evie, some day you will be old enough to read this blog of Daddy’s. So now you understand why, on the night before you went to your first day of High School, Daddy shaved your head.
