No Charge

For some reason, Bee and I thought it would be a fabulous idea to trim Mr. C's hair 10 minutes before he was to leave for school this morning.


Let's not forget that it's been years since I've cut his hair myself.  Don't ignore the fact that his hair is too long for clipper-use, anymore: one needs quality scissors and a steady hand to do a good job; I have neither.  I think I only agreed to it because Bee suggested it, and I was sure he'd back down any second.

He didn't.

With three minutes before the first bell, we didn't have time to perfect the cut.  "It looks . . . great!" Bee lied over-enthusiastically, shoving our son's feet into his shoes.

"You look . . . adorable!" I enthused, grabbing Mr. C's lunchbox and herding him out the door.

Knowing that his first-grade classmates probably weren't shitty-enough to make fun of him, but that all the teachers would immediately judge my poor parenting skills, I didn't even walk with him the full way to school.

Returning to the house a few minutes later, I was met by Bee, who had taken the opportunity to compose a line for his next country song:

"Fer givin' you a bad haircut five minutes 'fore school,
Mommy's sorry . . . "

"No shit," I sighed.  "Luckily, I think he's too young to be embarrassed yet."

"He looked like he just got out of prison," Bee added.  "Why didn't we just wait until after school?"

"Yeah, that would have been smart," I agreed. 

What I didn't tell Bee was that, just to cover my tracks, I had given Mr. C some final instructions before parting ways:

"Now remember, if anyone asks . . . tell them Daddy did it."