Grandmama likes to take Ricky and Billy to the barber my dad used to go to. She’s been doing it for years and the boys enjoy visiting with Martin (and going out to eat with Grandmama afterwards).
That leaves me to manage Rusty and Tommy’s hair. For the most part, I just cut it myself. I’m no pro and I don’t even do a very good job most of the time. I can admit it. I try though and I think considering all the tears, screams, and wiggling that I do a pretty decent job.
Every once in a while though, I just don’t want to do it. Just. Don’t. Want. To. One of these times came just before Thanksgiving. I was out doing errands with the boys so Kevin could have a quiet house for an important phone call. We’d done everything on my list and were going to be home earlier than I’d expected. So, I took the boys to the hair cut store.
They weren’t excited. They didn’t really want to do it. But they did. There were no tears. There weren’t many smiles either, but no tears.
One got a pretty good hair cut. One got a lousy hair cut. Both got Jamba Juices when we were done.