“It’s weird. But pretty weird. Like, princess weird.”

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Last night, in what was clearly a moment of temporary insanity, I decided to trim up my bangs. Let me set the scene.

It’s 7:30 pm. The Hubster was working late, which meant I was grossly outnumbered by offspring. Four of them, one of me. This is the first hint that my mind was slipping: Nobody in their right mind decides to trim their bangs when they are the sole guardian of four humans ages twelve and under. I don’t even need to explain this a little, not even for those of you without kids. YOU JUST GET IT, right? I mean, come on. It’s pretty obvious.

It’s 7:30 pm, and I’ve promised my youngest two that we would have a shower party. This sounds like a lot more fun than it really is. But they both needed bathed, and I’m always soaked after this chore anyway, so it seemed to make sense to just have us all hop in at once.

It seemed to make sense. << No. Just, no.

SweetZ wasn’t quite finished with her supper (she is the world’s SLOWEST eater), so I hauled Took upstairs, stripped her down, and let her run wild for awhile. All babies have an inner nudist, and the second her diaper is off she’s sprinting around the room, squealing like she’s never felt true freedom before this moment. With both the girls occupied, and the boys cleaning the kitchen (those angels!), I had a moment or two to myself.

I could have done so many things. I could have read a page or two of I Thought My Father Was God, the book I’m currently reading. I could have done a couple yoga poses to prepare myself for the coming chaos of the shower (oh, hindsight, you 20/20 bastard). I could have stripped down and frolicked naked (terrifying thought) with my toddler. ANY of these scenarios would have been vastly superior to the activity I actually participated in.

“Hey,” I thought to myself. “This would be a great time to trim my bangs.” (Enter sinister music here.)

I began snipping. Alice started shrieking. I stopped snipping to see what the noise was about. It was about nothing. She was just shrieking for the hell of it. She grinned up at me, I patted her on the head, and resumed my place in front of the mirror.

Snip, snip.

“WILLIE NELSON!” The shout is indignant and disgusted, and before I hear the next word, I know it’s coming. “MO-OM!”

I set the scissors down and go downstairs. Willie Nelson has eaten Zoey’s purse. She is standing over its remains like a person who’s just discovered their favorite kitteh has become roadkill. Her face is red and she is on the verge of tears. “Did you leave it on the floor?” I ask her. She nods, and a tear spills over. I pull her into a hug, tell her I’m sorry, and remind her to not leave important things on the floor anymore. I check on the boys, who are hovering nearby. Viggo looks worried, Liam looks pissed. They are uber protective of their sisters, and Willie Nelson just found himself on their shit list.

Good boys.

After putting Willie Nelson in his cage (and scratching him behind his ears. He likes to chew, but he’s a good dog), where he begins singing the song of his people (howwwwwwwlBARK! howwwwwwwlBARK! howwwwwwlBARK!), I lead SweetZ upstairs. She disrobes and begins prancing about with her sister (she got over the trauma of her purse pretty dang fast) while I pick up the scissors determined to finish. I look in the mirror. They’re a little crooked, but no biggie. I can fix that.

Snip. Snip. BAM-snip!

I look down. Alice is bear-hugging my leg, grinning her toothy grin. I look up and let out my own Willie Nelson-eque howl. A HUGE chunk of my bangs are GONE. The severed follicles are in the sink. I pick them up, rub them between my thumb and forefinger for a brief moment, then toss them in the trash. All my hopes for Zooey Deschanel sweet-n-sexy bangs are gone.

At this point its just a salvage act. And not a pretty one. In my mind’s eye, this image keeps cropping up.


I finish the job in silence while in the background are happy squeals, sounds of the boys singing in the kitchen, and howwwwwwlBARK! howwwwwwlBARK! The world goes on.

Our shower was loud and crazy. We got clean, the girls were happy, and afterwards, while we were brushing each other’s hair and talking about Very Important Things (Pink isn’t the best color, but it’s close; purple is the best color. Wouldn’t it be cool if we had horns like unicorns and wings like Peregrin Falcons? Have you seen my Kitty Shoes, momma? I want to wear my Kitty Shoes to bed), Sweet Z says to me, 

“Momma, did you cut your hair?”

“Yes. What do you think about it?”

“Welll….it’s weird. But pretty weird. Like, princess weird.”

I kissed her on the head and pulled the covers up to her chin, told her thank you, and prayed with her. She was asleep before I shut the door.


15 thoughts on ““It’s weird. But pretty weird. Like, princess weird.”

  1. jansenschmidt says:

    Princess weird. I like it. I recently posted a blog entitled “Always wear an invisible crown.” I guess that would definitely apply to someone with princess weird bangs.

    Sounds like a wonderful family you have.

    Patricia Rickrode
    w/a Jansen Schmidt

  2. Karen McFarland says:

    And I thought it was chaotic with two boys sixteen months apart. Uh, no. It give me great pleasure to know that you’ve kept your sense of humor with four kids. In the scheme of things, the bangs were a speck of dust compared to the purse, right? And they will grow back. Thank God! Not having girls, I did appreciate the princess weird expression. That’s just precious. You are really blessed. 🙂

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