Tag Archives: bowls

Bowl-ing for Haircuts

If you are a child, don’t let your mother make your clothes or cut your hair.  Mine did both.  I didn’t have anyone to warn me.  If you are an adult and one or both of these things were thrust upon you by your mother, then I’m so happy to be in the same club.  Because misery loves company.  I’m just glad we lived to tell about it.  You should have seen what she did to my brother for his First Communion.  His bowl wasn’t even deep enough to house a goldfish.  He refused to go out for days.  Or have his picture taken.  Otherwise I’d be sharing.

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Geez, there are a lot of carbs on that table.

In the pic above I would guess I was about 2.  My mother was probably 23.  I’m not really sure why I look so happy.  What I am sure about is the depth of the bowl she used on me so I would sport that look.  See that smug look on my mother’s face?  I believe she’s laughing at me.  Giving me the “I know what’s coming in 12 years, so I’m getting you now for years of future anguish” look.

Then when I was about 10, she tricked me into cutting my long, blonde locks.  I happen to remember the moment because it was downright traumatic.  She totally bamboozled me.  So what if my hair was sticking to my sweaty armpits in the heat of an August summer day?  “Oh, but The Dorothy Hamill is so in and besides, imagine how much cooler you’ll be,” she said.  Or something like that.  She took complete advantage of me while I was perhaps feeling a bit vulnerable.

Remember, Dorothy had the “wedge” in back.  It didn’t quite work out that way with me.  In addition to thick hair, she had body.  Although my hair was thick, it contained as much body as an anorexic lizard.

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I have no idea who that boy is. By the look on his face, he doesn’t like my haircut either.

My hair looks more like a floppy dishtowel, don’t you think?  Check out the shirt.  That was a “Mom’s Specialty.”  She had an obsession with elastic (remember this posting?).  I know.  You wish you were cool like me.  My new haircut looked great with my homemade denim gauchos, by the way.

After that debacle and the time she spent hours trying to home perm my follicles only to have my hair go pin straight immediately after releasing the rollers, I never let her get her hands on my head again.  Ever.  Although I am the root cause of many a bad ‘do of my own.  Look for examples coming soon.  In the meantime kids…if you see mother with scissors, run for your life.