We got together with my cousin’s wife, and her kids, a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I’ve had no peace when it comes to Whitney and her hair. She’s been begging me for long hair like my cousin’s daughter, Olivia. [What does that make her...a second cousin, first cousin once removed? O.K., until we can hammer this out, we’ll just keep referring to her like Whitney does: OLIVIA, OLIVIA, OLIVIA!]
And, no way mammy is anyone, under my care, growing their hair past shoulder-length. That is unless your twelve. Then you scare me and I don’t want to rattle your preteen cage. Easy girl, that’s right, no one’s making any hasty moves. Also, we have high-speed internet and cable so we’re good, you and me, right?
The way I see it, I’m responsible for the grooming and styling of four heads of hair: mine, Lexi’s, Whitney’s and Heidi’s. Five if you include Ben. I’m only mentioning him, because of this whole routine we go through every time he gets his hair cut. Basically, it consists of Ben moaning about the personal hardships of getting one’s hair cut. Then he spends fifteen minutes searching for his his keys and wallet and the Great Clips’ coupon that has gone missing. What’s that Ben?
"Where are my keys? Damn it, have you seen my wallet? How should I tell her to cut my hair? SHIT!"
And, yes, there’s even cursing.
So, short story long...
We'll stay with the short.
As far as I’m concerned, they’re all free to grow their hair until it gets stuck in their butt cracks when they’re older. When I’m not the one removing grapefruit sized knots from the napes of their necks.
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