surviving by a hair

Suffice it to say the single most traumatic aspect of parenting Quinn is forcing him to get his haircut. Yes I know all my friends think I am the devil for continuing to keep him shorn when he so desires his locks flowing in the wind, but this is not the point of my post.

Today was Black Wednesday, which means a pall was cast over the sky as we drove to Supercuts to do the unthinkable. Needless to say Quinn became emotional and crossed the threshold of acceptable opposition. I stuck to my guns though, and we emerged with one short-haired pissed-off boy, and a guilt-riddled pissed-off mother. His reaction escalated during our car ride, enough so that he knew he was in for some consequences.

Interjection: While at the "salon" we saw a woman who was mentally and physically impared getting a trim. My kids were naturally curious, and very solemn about it. They talked later about how sad it was that she was confined to a wheelchair, and had clearly never walked, and how she seemed to have no choice about her haircut.

So after flipping through all the appropriate (and inappropriate) responses to Quinn's meltdown, wherein he claimed his very life had been cheapened beyond recognition, and that he would obviously amount to nothing in life, I decided once we were home and he was exhausted from listing the ways in which I had rendered him at a tragic and permanent disadvantage, not to mention all the imperfections about the haircut, that he was going to write me a list of things for which he was grateful. While I ran out on some errands, this is what he came up with:



Perhaps, just perhaps, he's going to make it after all.

(Spare me the emails advocating for his Rapunzel rights.)