We went to Target this evening to get a few items for the house, and Will was talking to us about a shirt he wanted. I was helping him try it on, and he pulled it on over the shirt he was wearing. After we got it on, I fluffed his hair back up and smiled. "Your hair is looking really nice, Will," I told him.
Ben laughed. "He needs a haircut!" he protested. Will smiled big at his daddy, looking proud.
"I do need a haircut," Will said. Without pausing, he continued. "I trimmed it up because it was in my eyes."
Ben and I paused, aghast. "What did you say?" I asked, thinking maybe I misunderstood.
"I cut my hair today," he said, his huge eyes brutally earnest.
"What?" I said, trying not to go apoplectic in the aisle at Target. "You did WHAT?"
He shrugged and looked back down at his book he brought with him. "I used safety scissors," he said, as if that would settle the matter.
"WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU DO THAT?" I asked, unbelieving, but also trying not to laugh.
"You told me not to come out of my room until it was clean," he said, still calm and assuming his unassailable logic would win the day. "My hair was in my eyes. I didn't want to come out since my room was still messy, so I just cut it myself with safety scissors."
I looked at Ben, very frustrated, but really more desperate than anything, because I really wanted to roll on the floor laughing, but I knew if I gave in to that impulse, he'd decide independently altering his personal appearance with ostensibly "kid-safe" tools would amuse me. That's a dangerous chance to take.
Ben stepped in. "Will, we don't cut our own hair."
He really wanted to laugh, too. What a trooper my hubby is. I think after some further discussion, it sank in.
I hope so. I certainly don't want to be managing homemade tattoos anytime soon.
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