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Him: Mom, do all people have bald spots?

Me: Not all people. I don’t. You don’t.

Him: Ummmm, I do NOW.

I nearly choked on my ice cream bar that I convinced myself I deserved after folding three loads of laundry.

My son cut his hair. Cut a big piece right off the top of his noggin after finding scissors in the bathroom drawer and not being able to contain his excitement.

‘I didn’t make a very good choice, did I Mom?’

I appreciated that my good choice talk was sinking in, albeit a tad bit late. Let’s face it, the timing blew. He chose to do get scissor-happy one week before family photos where we planned to make every effort to look 68% normal. He threw Santa to the wind, I mean, it IS the month of December, when Elf on the Shelf is watching his every move and whether or not he’s really eating that pork chop or feeding it to the dog.

The dog that threw up twice before bed.

I put on my serious face. I half-calmly shared my disappointment and explained that scissors are dangerous and certainly can’t be used without supervision and if you do it again, your mother may end up on medication.

He hugged me and apologized, asking if Santa would still visit and if we could blend his bald spot in with some hair product.

‘You know, like Daddy.’

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