Somebody, Please, Stop Me

Any woman who has trimmed her own eyebrows has blown it at least once in her lifetime. You know, you pluck, check, pluck and then you pluck one too many and throw off the delicate balance of your arch.
So you try to fix it.
And try.
And try.

On Friday night, I trimmed Bama's bangs a little. She was starting to develop a little tick as she tried to brush them out of her face. Sometimes ponies helped, but her hair, overall, is a bird's nest. My mother says Bama's hair is exactly like mine was at her age. Curly in the front, cotton candy in the back. Brushing it elicits shrieks of panic.

But the bangs. If only I could snip them back, just a little. So I snipped. A little. Then did a check, and turned her and snipped a little more. Mister came downstairs to observe and said, "Put the scissors down."

Step away from the girl. I nearly cried at the approaching disaster. "We can keep a nice lock of her hair."

Footnote: She does not look harmed, wonky, or otherwise socially damaged by my slight trim. But there's a little on the right I'd like to even up.

Somebody, Please, Stop Me

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