Sometimes, I like to pretend I am a hair stylist.

It’s one of those jobs I always wished I had, much like being a teacher so I could decorate bulletin boards or a marine biologist so I could be tan.

Never mind that other people’s children annoy me, or that the ocean is a giant salt water toilet with sharks and dead bodies.

Being a hairstylist always looked like so much fun.  Cutting, and curling, and gossiping, and wearing capes.

Who doesn’t love to wear capes?

I always thought it was silly you needed a license to do hair, but not give people bikini waxes, which, in my opinion, is way more invasive, but whatever.  I’m not in charge of making laws.

Wait, Andy is telling me you do need a license to be a bikini waxer.

Apparently something more than a guy in Cancun with a shirt that says “Part Time Gynecologist.”

I thought I had my bases covered there, but he is just never gonna let me live that one down, like the scarring isn’t enough.

So, while I may not be able to cut hair in, say, a salon, there is nothing stopping me from buying a 40 piece razor kit from the Hair Accessory aisle of Walmart to play cosmetologist with at home.

Also, my kids go ape shit when strangers come at them with scissors.

Plus I totally get all warm and turned on when people play with my hair, so if I cut Andy’s, it’s basically foreplay, which means no more ball tickling.

This is easily the best purchase I have ever made.

The first time around, it was rough.  I’m not gonna lie, I have never been good at things like eying measurements, or holding multiple objects at once.

But, after a few cuts, I found my footing, and I’m starting to look pretty professional when I look at myself doing it in the mirror.

Tonight was haircut night.

Which means I clean off the bathroom counter, put up the rugs, lay out my supplies and take off my shirt and coat myself with baby powder, because hair sticks to powdered flesh way less than it sticks to cotton, and there is nothing attractive about full body itching.

There is also nothing attractive about finding enough hair under your breasts to knit a scarf, but it’s the nature of the beast.

The boys are easy.  I distract them with candy while they ask me questions.

Why do ants live in holes?

Why do you cut our hair wearing your bra-wl?

Do boys wear bra-wls?

Is the moon rich?

While Andy is equally easy, and I distract him with boobies, he is a much larger job.

It is not uncommon for people to assume my husband is Greek or Indian.

He has dark skin.  Black hair.  A beard.  And he’s really, really hairy.

He doesn’t look one ounce of the Irish blood he has pumping through his veins.

By the time I finish cutting his hair, it’s like I shaved a poodle, and I swear I pick it out of my teeth for a week.

There is so much, and it’s just…everywhere.

If I knew how to make clothes, I’d be rich, because he’s basically like having one of those alpacas they sell on television promising you both companionship and income, only way easier because he doesn’t spit or poop on the floor.

This week, I decided to go the Jersery Shore route, and I can tell he’s super excited about it.

I'm basically Paul Mitchell or a less nasaly Jonathan Antin.

The boys were super easy, as I was just re-shaving the mohawks I forced onto them after I grew tired of washing syrup, pop rocks and Children’s Tylenol out of their long surfer cuts.

But as for me and Gigi, we won’t be cutting our hair anytime soon.  You don’t get anywhere in the toddler or adult pageant scene with short hair.  The judges just feel sorry for you.  Everybody knows that.

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