Irony strikes.

I find it SLIGHTLY ironic that I just barely wrote this post.

Something awful happened to J on Saturday. And I cried.

Chris has been my personal master cosmetologist as of late. Sadly, I haven't had it done "professionally" since my birthday last year. Last year people. What can I say? He has great rates? Hawaii has given me it's stamp of ghetto approval? Both rebuttals will have to do. Very much so. Meh.

So, for my birthday, we up and decided to go and get a nice annual (hopefully not annual. We've really got to shape up!) hair cut for myself. The girl did an awesome job, and I was pleased with the end result.

Then, she looked at J. I should have never brought him. I should have hid him under a rock. "Does he need a haircut today, too?"

"Nope. We haven't ever cut his hair. We are waiting a while..." because we are white trash, I added under my breath.

"Oh, I could just trim his bangs real quick if you want!"

I nervously looked at J, then to Chris, then to my new "hair girl". J was looking exceptionally homeless, what with all this rain and wind lately, and what the heck, my new B.F.F. seemed to be "in the know" with hair. I mean, she did say that my non-dyed-I'm-growing-my-hair-out-I-know-it-looks-really-really-despertately-hideous-hair looked very "in".

So, feeling a little overly confident about the pickle I was in, I retorted, "Ok. Well show me exactly what you would do."

She grabbed my little mut, and pulled about an inch or two of his hair out and matter-of-factly stated, "I would just trim this much".

Piece. Of. Cake.

So, I plopped my little poodle on the chair. At that moment of fate, Hugh started wiggling in his car seat. I walked over to rescue him. After all, J had insisted that Hugh wear a hoodie out on our adventure, along with the warm fuzzy blanket; the babywas sweating to death. After I got him unstrapped, and de-clothed, I turned around to see the masterpiece J had become.

And. My. Heart. Broke.

I'm not kidding you people. I think I would have reacted the same way, if I turned around and his arm had been accidentally cut off (dramatic? You bet ya!! Good thing I don't allow Priavte comments...HA!). My jaw dropped and as much as my blood was boiling, I was speechless. Frozen, a matter of fact. I was incompetently incapable of opening my mouth and screaming, "WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU DONE!!??"

His hair was being chopped off, like it ain't no thang.

Chopped off. His hair. His long, blond, totally girly, should have gotten his hair cut 10 times before now, beloved locks. Each cut she kept taking, I took as a personal insult. Again and again.

Finally, somewhere along this haze, she stopped cutting, I gave her some money, and I walked out, pouting like a three year old. Yes, I cried the whole way home, and for about 15 minutes after that. I did the most logical thing I could think of: picked up the phone and called my sister and mother in hysterics.

No one else would understand why I was being so pathetic about a hair cut.

But they knew. They knew it was not just a hair cut. All of a sudden, when I looked at my boy, he looked like the year and a half old boy he is. He didn't look like a shaggy, over sized baby puppy. My infant, first born son, was now a BOY. A big boy.

I was just simply not prepared for that.

J refused to look at the camera. I think he could sense the hostility.

Hugh was very proud of his distraction that caused this train wreck.