After giving Nobby such a hard time for breaking the rules of ‘What Is Acceptable To Say To Your Wife (if you want to keep the family jewels intact)’, I have now shamefully broken a rule myself. And this set was written down so there’s no excuse.
In fact, it seems we are all at it at the moment. Pickle has also joined in the rule breaking fun, although I am struggling to admonish him because I am not sure how to explain to a six-year-old the reasons why you can’t French-kiss your Mummy. I told him I’ll remind him about it when he’s 16 but he really didn’t get it, as he squirmed about on my lap and tried to snog my face off while I attempted to chuck him off. I only invited him to give me a hug and he tried to slip me the tongue, what is he like?
But I know he for one approves of my own contravention, though. Because what I did was cut his hair myself. Now this was quite high on my list of ‘Things I Will And Won’t Do To My Children’ which I compiled shortly before Poppet was born. Somehow I got it into my head that there were things I remember from my childhood which I deemed unsuitable to do with my own offspring. Just shows what I know though, doesn’t it? I mean, just how fast does hair grow? Pickle needs a trim about every 6 weeks and while we had a brilliant kids salon in France with comfy chairs, pretty hairdressers and best of all, individual television screens which guaranteed he’d sit still and not risk losing his ears to the scissors, I have not yet found an equivalent here in Budapest. I don’t even know how to say ‘haircut’ let alone ‘watch out he’s a wriggler’.
However, after 2 months without a cut the poor lamb resembled a choirboy with a bowl-cut and drastic action was required. And besides, he asked me to do it after catching sight of himself in the bathroom mirror one night and wailing ‘I look like a girl!’ I didn’t comply straight away though and this is where Poppet jumped on the band wagon and broke the rules – by going at his fringe with her craft scissors. You know when the kids go all quiet upstairs and you’re not sure whether to panic or send up a silent thank you and put the kettle on? Well I discovered them a little bit too late to save any more than a centimetre of his fringe but at least I had a place to start for the rest. So I confess, dear reader, I attacked him with the electric trimmers again (remembering to put the guard on this time so I didn’t shear him like a sheep) while he sat on a high stool watching Thomas The Tank Engine. It wasn’t too bad a job in the end, I am happy to say, and his ears are now visible once more. Although Nobby did have to send him back to get rid of the rats tail down his back that the towel had been covering.
Well nobody’s perfect. That’s my only excuse and I’m sticking to it.
That reminds me of the time I took the elctric shaver thing to my son then about 2. For some reason he grabbed them and pressed them to his head, resulting in am almost-bald-patch on the back. I had to practically shave the rest of his head to make it even! Shudder!
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