Jimmy gets scissor-happy

Sunday morning, while we were loading up the car to go back to Highlands, the heat and humidity really started getting to me, and my hair kept clumping up under my collar and scratching my neck. I handed Jimmy a pair of scissors and we went out on the deck for him to trim it up a little.

I stood there, expecting to hear a delicate snip, snip, snip, but instead was dismayed by a heavy SCRUNCH, SCRUNCH, SCRUNCH, and the sight of long strands of hair falling around my feet.

"STOP!!" I shrieked. "What are you DOING?"

"I'm cutting your hair like you asked me to." Jimmy sounded aggrieved.

"I asked you to TRIM it, not whack it off up to my ears. You've cut off three inches!"

"Well, you told me to cut it. You didn't say not to cut it short."

"I didn't tell you not to give me a Mohawk either!! I'd have been better off if I'd just called [three-year-old] Jake to come over and cut it!"

"That hurts," sulked Jimmy, "really cuts me to the quick."


My foot is for scale.
I'm becoming reconciled to my new 'do. And maybe Jimmy has discovered a talent as a hair stylist. Maybe he could become the new Jamison Shaw; it's unfortunate that his old bad back won't let him stand for very long.