The Mother of All Haircuts

I learn absolutely everything the hard way.

About three weeks ago, Firstborn took his shaggy unkempt mop of a hairdo to a friend's house for a sleepover. At some point during the evening, the boys decided that he needed to lose a little length, but just in the bang area. This is what he came home looking like:

Remember those weird kids from Village of the Damned?

So out came my trusty hair clippers and off came the rest of Firstborn's hair. Afterwards, he looked like a different kid:

So far so good. And this was where I decided to push my luck a little farther and also give RB his own buzz cut. I should've quit while I was ahead.

I guess I should mention that the hair clippers I use to cut my kids' hair are the same clippers I used to use to cut the Captain's hair back when we were starving students who couldn't afford an $8 haircut at BoRics. In short, they are very, VERY old. They are so old that they came with a VHS instructional video showing you how to give your kid a flat-top, which the hair clipper company cleverly deemed the "urban cut". This is what the urban cut looks like if you do it right:

I dare anyone to go anywhere, urban or otherwise, sporting this haircut.

I got RB into the bathroom and started buzzing the hair off his little head when out of absolutely nowhere, the plastic guide (I think hairdressers call this a "cheater"?) that was supposed to keep me from cutting his hair shorter than 1/4" popped off and I cut a bald spot off the top of his head:

This elicited some panic and squealing from me, and by the time the Captain had stomped in and stomped out again, my blood pressure was somewhere around that area on the doctor's chart that helpfully points out that you're dead.

But RB's hair was only half cut and I needed to finish the job. I took a deep breath, reattached the guide and continued to buzz away. And then...IT HAPPENED AGAIN!!!

Right on the side of his head! Luckily, the Captain--always level-headed and calm in an emergency--heard my shrieks, came running in and yelled "WHAT are you doing WRONG?!" and then ran back out, leaving me to figure out what on earth I was going to do with the ancient hair clippers that had left my poor child looking like he'd just been through a round of chemo.

Oh, right.

Luckily hair grows fast and the bald spots have grown back in just in time for RB's very first picture day at school next week. And I have learned the valuable lesson that a trained hairdresser is worth the fifteen bucks. Or at least that I need to re-watch that instructional video once in a while.

Long live the urban cut.