So I spent Easter with some very lovely folks, was reminded I haven't blogged in a very long time, and made a Funky Monkey run - the handbag was my treasure, begging to go home with me.
So my oldest son has asked several times for a ride to the hairdressers for a trim. He is very fond of his hair, far worse than most women I know. When he was little he liked a number 2 buzz cut, and would run his hand over the spikey short hair often.
Today we had a hour and a half after school/work before soccer training, so I handed him some money and his phone. We talked about what he was going to have done. "Less than an inch off, Mum, that's exactly what I'll tell her"
Okeydokey, I dropped him and ran home to whip up dinner.
Yesterday in the green.
He walked into the hairdressers, told her he wanted a trim, less than one inch off, please.
I got a text, it said simply "come get me".
By the time I got to the stopsign at the end of our street I received a second text, saying, "don't come , i'm halfway home, i walked". I picked him up. And I think he looks lovely, however, I did tell him I would gladly go all mummabear on the hairdresser for him if he wanted me to.
And it is just so sad that the hairdresser, she doesn't know what one inch is.
He is handling it really well. Dr. Pepper therapy helps.
Sad little Taks Maths Failure of a hairdresser though. 
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