Oh, the humanity...

All right, everyone, listen up. I haven't posted in a while. There's just something about having 5 kids home for the summer that puts a major crimp in my blogging-world style. Three of those kids have been back in school for 3 weeks, and yet, here sits my poor blog, abandoned and alone.

And so it may have continued to sit, had not recent incidents in our otherwise placid, uneventful lives nudged me back to the computer keyboard to document a most unfortunate occurrence. Of course, I'm talking about... a haircut! An ugly, defacing haircut, the kind of haircut dreaded by self-respecting mothers and given by and for children! Sometimes other children's heads are the target of the ill-wielded shears, but, more often, calamity falls upon their very own monstrous heads. Such was the case in our home last night. I sincerely apologize to any of our dear neighbors whose windows may have been shattered by my ear-piercing shrieks. Once you've seen the results of my middle son's encounter with the clippers, either here in photos, or up close and personal, you will surely, dear family and friends, confirm the necessity of such deafening screams.

And so, without further explanation, I present to you... Quentin's Reverse Mohawk:

Oh, yes, little clipper monster, hide your face in shame.

Actually, it'd be better if he were ashamed, instead of proud! Because, let me tell you, he was really angry with me when I informed him that I would now have to cut the rest of his hair to match the jagged furrow he'd created. "No, Mom! It'll look DUMB!" Yes, he actually said those words. Add to that my usually reasonable husband, who agreed that this kooky kid should leave his hair the way it was, and you can feel my pain. But, fortunately, my family subscribes to the "When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" credo, and the kid got a haircut.

We both cried during that memorable haircut, my offspring and I--I at the loss of his shiny locks and disturbing parade of irrepressible mental images (boot camp, concentration camp, neo-Nazi hate rallies...); he at the untimely loss of such a cool 'do. Yes, I repressed his self-expression and imposed on him my version of normal and acceptable, but, come on, wouldn't you have done the same?!?! He's six! Totally incapable of making any decision more important than what to eat for breakfast! Back me up here, people!

And so, this morning, my darling Q-ball (I never thought that nickname would be so aptly suited to him) headed to church looking like this:

Thank goodness hair grows rather quickly (about half an inch a month, according to howstuffworks.com and various other websites I checked out last night), so this episode will be only a(n unpleasant) memory in about 4 weeks....