I walked out into the dining room and the first thing I saw, on the bench at the dining-room table, was a chunk of hair.

A serious chunk of hair.

Immediately, I began to worry and hunted down the kids. Who knew that safety scissors could cut hair? Why wasn’t there any crying involved? (Both my kids are growing out their hair and I thought screaming would ensue like it does when I even mention hair-cutting within earshot).

They were playing in the bedroom like nothing was wrong. I tried to see from my vantage point at the doorway which one had less hair than before. I honestly couldn’t tell, but figured this just meant it was a huge chunk on a part of someone’s head I just couldn’t see.

A┬ástarted flipping her hair talking about her “new style” – I looked closer and asked her to show me. S looked at me, puffed up her chest and said proudly, “I cut her hair, doesn’t it look beeyoutiful?” Upon closer examination I saw the straight lines and layers that were cut into A’s hair.

I don’t have a picture because I kept trying and couldn’t get the camera to pick up the delicate lines.

S can either cut hair (it’s a family thing, I can cut hair, my cousin can, my aunt can…) or she lucked out and we need her to start picking lottery numbers. My guess is she has the hair cutting gene from my side of the family.

It’s good to know she’ll have something to fall back on if her dreams of being a famous artist or dancer don’t come to fruition. Hell, it’s better than being a server at the local Olive Garden while waiting for fame and glory. (Note: I worked at the OG for three years. *shudder* Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Ok, maybe my worst enemy, but not the so-so enemies. Seriously)