I was drinking my coffee in the kitchen the other morning when Anja stumbled in, bleary-eyed and clutching her blankie. As she mumbled her breakfast requests to me, I glanced down and then did a double-take.
“Did you… Anja! Oh my god. Did you… CUT YOUR HAIR?”
Anja, now wide-eyed and guilty-looking, answered with an emphatic “no!”
I started pawing at her forehead, and sure enough discovered that she’d given herself uneven bangs in a top-secret, middle of the night self-haircut.
“Anja, you did! You cut your hair! Where are the scissors? Where’s the hair?!”
Through tears and a wobbly lower lip, she answered (induced purely by my panic):
“In my bed…”
Oh boy. Once we both recovered from the shock (do spare me the “it’ll grow back” speech), we agreed that she didn’t do such a bad job after all. Mama Marnie cleaned it up a little, and as we walked home I said:
“So Anja, let’s remember. Who cuts your hair?”
“Only our hairdresser, mama. I get it now. I totally get it.”
Crisis averted. Parenthood: how I love thee.
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