In Graham's stocking for Christmas this year, he got this book.
It was very appropriate of Santa to bring it because there's really no three words that send Graham into hysterics quite like, "Buddy, it's time for a haircut."
You just counted the words, didn't you? Six, not three. I know. Remember, no habla mathpanol. Si, burrito.
Yesterday, on the way home from school, I uttered those words. I warned the other children first to cover their ears. Graham literally threw himself on the ground and wailed. Almost as if his arm was being sawed off. With a butter knife.
He cried so hard, I thought he was going to pop a vessel. All because scissors were going to come in contact with his hair.
Is he Samson? Pretty sure he's not. Is he afraid his strength will leave his body if his hair is cut? Possibly.
It didn't help that, after we'd actually gotten the haircut, he was helping me carry a gallon of milk but accidentally dropped it. A gallon of milk makes a big, big mess. It also doesn't help support my claim that he will still be strong and handsome, even with a haircut.
We don't know where he got this absurd notion that haircuts could make or break his whole look. Perhaps, he's spent a little too much time looking at my high school yearbooks. They could be a case study in bad hair and may have scarred him a little.
Anyway, after some bribing, mostly consisting of an all access pass on the Wii last night, he conceded and submitted to the shears.
He looks great and I'd love to show you a picture but he's still unwilling to document his nightmare. His one-half-inch nightmare.
This morning, as I was packing his lunch in anticipation of his long day worrying about his haircut, I gave him the last pack of Nacho Cheese Doritos as somewhat of a consolation prize. The other two got Cheetos.
Now, this brings me to another puzzling issue in our house.
When did Cheetos become the low man on the chip totem pole? My kids would rather have basically anything other than Cheetos. Really? Pretzels? Yes, pretzels and plain Ruffles have moved up the ladder, passing Cheetos in my childrens' chip hierarchy.
Because I refuse to waste perfectly good processed cheese, I've found myself selflessly eating the kids' castaways. I've found them to be an excellent source of energy; especially the energy needed to handle haircut day.