Lacey Is No Ken Paves or How I Stopped Worrying and Embraced the Shorn Dome

There are things that must get done that I absolutely despise. Taking the trash out is one of those things. By the time the trash is on its way outside, it is testing the weight limits of whatever trash bag Lacey found on sale because I have used my foot to compact 100 pounds into a space normally held by 10. I feel like Superman manipulating matter. I equally despise mopping. And not necessarily the actual mopping, but the discovery of how poorly I swept. There is no greater failure than holding an impotent wet mop and seeing the debris you missed. Hanging clothes is another. On more than one occasion, I may or may not have reset the dryer to avoid hanging clothes. Full disclosure, there are clothes in the dryer that could be folded right now. I’m not being lazy. Time is needed to ensure those wrinkles settle in.

As bad as all the above are, they pale in comparison to haircut day.

Not my own haircut. I have grown quite institutionalized on the subject. Marines are required to have their mane clipped weekly. It’s a bit overkill, but whatevs. The origin of this weekly ritual is unknown. My guess is there is some ambiguous wording in some obscure order, written by some douchebag overachiever. Now the rest of us pay the price. Again, whatevs.

No, my problem is Carson’s haircut. He hates it. His normally calm demeanor is replaced with something that requires a young priest and an old priest. He kicks, cries, wiggles, yells, screams, and sulks. At the end of this spectacle, I am physically spent, covered in sweat and hair, and monetarily lighter due to the tip we must leave for the barber’s troubles.

We had tried everything we could think of until last Sunday. Lacey had the bright idea (I supported it) to cut Carson’s hair at home. So, with a Wahl home haircut kit, we embarked on mission to make this chore less deplorable.

To get Carson on board, it was decided that I would go first. Ya know, hey daddy’s doing it so it must be okay. I figured Lacey had seen me with essentially the same ‘do for over six years and if it did go awry, my profession encouraged bald heads. This would not happen because as Lacey assured me, she had skills like Edward Scissorhands if he had graduated from Paul Mitchell University. I didn’t believe her (her only other hair cutting experience was a failed collaboration with yours truly, where we failed miserably to shave our dog) but 33 year old, fathers of three really don’t care about appearances. Vomit covered shirts: no problem. Grant’s cold and flu version of scotch guard on my sleeve: not a catastrophe. Navy blue and black: no, that will not happen. I’m not a savage.

Lacey began the experiment that I didn’t know was an experiment, by asking questions that a seasoned barber/stylist should know. Guard sizes, fade issues, and proper utilization of resources were topics discussed. She stifled giggles while she cut. My deep brown locks fell carelessly on my shoulders. Concentration was broken as children ran through the haircut area/living room. Laughs unstifled. Apologies spoken but not meant.

Lacey completes her masterpiece and I temper my expectations as I walk to the bathroom. The image stares back and I’m returned to my sophomore year of high school. Although this time it’s my wife who has butchered me, not Fred Marion. The “fade”, for the two minutes it existed, was more recognizable from space than the Great Wall of China.

As mentioned before, this occurrence was predestined. I knew at the first giggle.

Lacey continued the giggles as she gave me a sweet mohawk (pictured below), then chromasized my dome.

With this enjoyable experience behind us, we focused our efforts on Carson. Ladies and gents, I’d like to say that we fought the good fight. That we discovered a method to cut Carson’s hair that created a relaxing, enjoyable experience. Unfortunately, I ended up physically spent, covered in sweat and hair, and my own head was follically-challenged.

Just another typical Sunday and it was awesome.



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