During the cooler months, I tend to let my children's hair venture a bit past the neck and edge toward shagginess. Since we live in California, our coldest part of winter is pretty short lived before the sunny and warmer days begin to emerge. It is at this time we journey to the beautician to break free of our 'winter coat'. The other day, I realized that the colder days were coming to their early close and my son's hair was long overdue for a bit of a trim. I decided we would visit his usual hairdresser on the way home from school. Unfortunately, she was out of town on an international vacation. So that night I took a quick look at his bangs and thought "how hard could it be... ?"

Ask any adult and they will usually have a tale to tell about when they were privy to an overzealous haircutting sibling or when they decided to makeup their own doo. In addition and ironically, most of these journeys of beautifying oneself came shortly before picture day. I remember my own first cut. It started with me, scissors and handful of hair from the right side of my head. It ended with my mother, her hand on my backside and threats of doom if I ever did it again. And yes, it was the day before pictures. There must be a time when a child passes this haircutting rite of passage and goes on to lead a normal life free of urges to take scissors in hand. But, what about when later in life, that same child who is now an adult has a momentary lapse of reason and becomes a parent thinking that an omission of beauty school is of no consequence... and then proceeds to deliver a hack, chop and "uh-oh! we need the clippers" fleecing on their innocent little one's noggin?

You guessed it. A couple days passed and we were counting the hours until Lee resumed her position at the back of her barber's chair to bring harmony back to my son's earnest head. But, let's rewind moment so that I can walk you through that night. I dug out my hair clippers with the colorful variety of blades. I chose what I thought would be a thick forgiving clipper, allowing the child to keep a good inch or so of hair. I was gentle around the ears and pretty careful around the neck. Everything was going great until I hit the bangs. Attempting to go with the flow of the hair, I began at the part. Amazingly, I observed a lop of my son's hair falling to the floor as it was shorn almost clear down to the scalp.

Yet, as I followed along with the wave of his hair, the clippers would only cut slight sprigs and strands of hair along the rest of the stroke. Although I could tell that I had things a bit uneven, I pursued the styling with snips from the scissors here and there, a couple more quick zaps from the clippers and at last, and to my pleasant surprise, his hair looked pretty well groomed. I congratulated myself and figured we could spare the extra dollars for the three individuals in our family that regularly visit the hair salon. The notion was short lived, for when my son awoke the next morning, the story took an even further unsightly turn. After he was dressed and ready for school, I took comb and gel in hand. I smoothed and I stroked. I lifted and I scrunched. I rearranged and I shaped. I worked that little head of hair for many moments until I finally realized that it was uneven, crooked, quite a mess and totally uncool. Though he was not thrilled with his chopped doo, it is a blessing that my young man is still in the early years of grade school. Had this happened any later in his life as a lad, I firmly believe he would have refused to go to school until an urgent meeting with some stand-in hairdresser was called to order. But, lucky for me, he was happier to be rid of his shaggy bangs than he was peeved at his uneven cut.

Another lesson has been learned. As a mom, maybe I can scare away the boogeyman. I can also make a mean chocolate chip cookie and bring clarity to math homework. There are plenty of skills that I can confidently present to my kids; however, my jack of all trades ability stops cold at bringing order to an unruly head of hair. This is fine with me. Lee is happy because she has a solid position in our monthly budget as hairstylist. My sons are happy because they can add another subject to the list of women in their lives who pamper them. And me... I am just happy because this story allows me another one of those sobering and harmlessly humorous moments that brings a smile of acceptance to my imperfect life as a mom.