I was reading some of my favorite blogs the other day, when I noticed Rob of Rob in His Bunker had written about home haircuts. I was reminded of the one and only time I gave my boys haircuts. At the time we lived about 20 miles from the closest town. When you are pinching pennies, you don't drive a 40 mile round trip just for a haircut. And in the winter, it was a toss up as to whether the road past our house would be drifted in or not. So home haircuts seemed like a good idea.
My mother cut my hair the whole time I was growing up. She cut my sister's hair. She cut my aunt's hair. She cut the neighbor's hair. She didn't have a clipper. She used a scissors. How hard can it be, I thought.
So I set my boys on chairs out in the yard. Tied those big white flour sack dishtowels around their necks to keep hair clippings from falling down inside their shirts. And I proceeded to cut.
Well, that didn't look quite right, so I cut some more.
That side was just a tiny bit longer than the other side, so I cut some more.
Maybe if I take a little more off the back it will be OK.
When I finally admitted defeat, both boys looked like a weed whacker had been at their heads.
I loaded them into the car, drove the 40 mile round trip and got them professional haircuts.
It was worth every penny.
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