This Sunday, as I woke up from my nap, I thought I would make homemade ice cream sandwiches as a treat to everyone for letting me sleep. The Short Chic runs into the kitchen and says, "Mommy, I have been playing beauty shop!" Of course, I play along. After all I just recently learned that playing along with their fantasy play is good for their little brains. So, I respond, "Great, can you do my hair?" She replies, "well, it is a hair cutting store, see?"
And before my eyes, she is holding out one of her piggy tales. On one side of her head, the perfect Nellie Olsen curls are gone and she is holding a stub of hair right below the rubber band. She offers to take me to her salon, aka her bedroom, and proudly shows off my best crafting scissors and several locks of her now gone curls.
After I yelled at The Husband. After The Husband yelled at The Short Chic, we decide to head out to get her hair fixed by a professional; one with a license. But not before a mug shot:
The hair dresser did his best not to laugh. He also reminded me that everyone tries to cut their hair at least once. I told him I was just praying this is not the end of her curly locks.
She has never sat so calm and still to get her hair cut before. He also told The Short Chic that the law requires a license to cut hair and she might want to save running a salon until she had one.
Her hair use to come down to the middle of her back when it was wet. Now, maybe her shoulders. The bright side: preschool photos were last week.