Snip, snip, snip

Last week Eliza decided to cut her hair. I guess this shouldn't surprise me, since she has a history with scissors). In addition to diminishing her already depleted right side, she cut herself a jagged line of bangs. Is there a word for obsessive compulsive inappropriate scissor use? (Trichotillomania, but with scissors?)

Now, I have my own unpleasant history of bangs. More unpleasant than the hugeness of the aforementioned bangs was the length of time I sported these bangs. Okay, fine, and the height I was able to attain with years of practice and a can of Extra Hold Aqua-Net. (How did I miss the hairspray's implications that my hair would look like a net?) It's a wonder Denny's never came to recruit me as a server with the likes of my bangs. Perhaps they were scared of my tiny lycra shorts and boat-like shirt.
Enough about me.

Sage had her own few scissor problems, but they never involved hair or clothes. Well, real hair, that is. When her preschool asked for a picture of her, I cut Eliza out of the other half of one that I had lying around, and Sage decided to further doctor it up. Needless to say I didn't turn it in for the preschool Wall of Fame. I thought the fact that Sage had included underwear in her self-portrait was probably enough revelation for one semester.

Then there was the time Sage decided to trim her birthday money to a more beautiful or manageable (I'm not sure which) size. I'm just glad I caught her on the second bill.
It appears that Mark and I have not been sufficiently thorough in our admonition to the kids to not run with scissors.