Mom Put You In The Cross-Hairs

(I’m three-and-a-half when my mom tries to cut my bangs. She does a pretty awful job of it. She takes me the next day to the salon to get the mess straightened out. Embarrassed at the awful hair cut she’d given me, she takes certain liberties when explaining things to the people at the salon.)

Hair Dresser: *in a sing-song voice* “So I hear SOMEONE tried to cut their hair yesterday…”

Me: “Huh?”

Hair Dresser: *begins to wash my hair* “Mm-hmm. I hope you didn’t do so bad of a job that I can’t fix it.”

Me: “Huh? But—” *tries to look at my mom, who is pointedly looking elsewhere*

Hair Dresser: “Yep. Well, hopefully you’ve learned your lesson about playing with scissors. That’s very dangerous, and you really shouldn’t—”

(At this point, I’m outraged; not at being accused of cutting my own hair and doing a poor job of it, but rather at having broken a rule in the first place.)

Me: “I DIDN’T PLAY WITH THE SCISSORS. MY MOMMY DID IT, NOT ME! GO FUSS AT HER!”

(The entire salon goes silent, and looks at my now red-faced mother.)

Mom: “Well… I, uh… I tried to straighten it up a bit…”