Out of the Bushes...

So this morning, I wasn't at my sharpest.  

Alright, let's face it, most mornings, I'm not at my sharpest.  Sometimes, there just isn't enough caffeine on the planet, you know?  But this morning?  Oy.

First off, when the Impossible Son and I stepped out onto the front porch to leave for school, he stopped and went, "Uh... Mom?"

"What?" I asked as I locked the front door.

"Look," he said a little too calmly, so I turned around and looked toward the driveway and my mouth dropped open.

"Where the hell's my car???" I asked, shocked, because it wasn't in its usual place at the end of the driveway.  Then memory kicked in and I looked up toward the garage and went, "D'oh!"  Because I'd forgotten that the Husbandly One had moved it to air up the tires.

Yes, I normally park at the end of the driveway.  Why?  Because there are billions and billions of little tiny birds that live in the red-tipped photinias that our predecessors planted alongside the driveway and (1) they are the most prolific poopers on the planet and (2) they have extremely accurate aim when it comes to the vehicles I drive.  I mean, I actually gave up washing the minivan when we had it, because I would have had to wash it four times a day every single day!

Everybody knew my van, because it was the red one covered with bumper stickers... and bird poop.  Not exactly a notoriety I was comfortable with, you know?

So when we got the CR-V, I made the decision to park it at the end of the driveway, before the bushes.  Results?  No more bird poop.  I'm the only one who parks in the driveway anyway, so might as well park the way I want, right?  *sigh*

So, the Impossible Son and I got in the car, my son chattering away as usual, I start the car, put it in reverse and check the mirror, preparing to back out.   All of a sudden, a tall, thin, grey-haired figure lurches out into the street from behind the bushes, slack-faced and dragging one leg, one arm swinging wide while the other is held straight down and in front of a stiff body.  The early morning light casts a grayish yellow pallor to the skin, and my first thought is, "Holy crap, the zombie apocalypse is real, WTF???"

Mr. Impossible says, "Mom?  You okay?  What is it, what's... OMG, Mom, is that... is that a zombie???"

The Husbandly One nearly got a frantic phone call to come home RIGHT NOW!!!

However, my brain kicked into gear and I said, "No, honey, that's the sewing lady who lives down the street."

"Why's she walking like that?" he asked, watching her lurch her way down the street.  

"She had a stroke a few years ago," I said as I plugged in the iPod to give my pounding heart a chance to slow back down to a more normal rhythm.  "We usually see her walking in the mornings."

"Yeah, but from the other side." Mr Impossible watched her go as I slowly backed out.  "Guess she decided to take a different route today."

"Yep," I said, and we made our way to school.  

The funniest part though is, until that moment, I never realized how much zombies in movies walk like stroke victims.  No, really, think about it.  The same stiff legged gait, the arms held out for balance, one swinging loosely, the other sometimes curled up close to the body, or held out straight, the slack-jawed face or dead expression with one side of the face drooping... 

Yep, I was definitely awake as I took off for the school.  Nothing like a couple of shocks to get the old adrenaline pumping!

I'll take a pass on that tomorrow, though, thanks.

Because she liked the sound of the scissors...

What is it about the number four??

Ten years ago, when the Impertinent Daughter was four, she waited until I was busy washing dishes and grabbed the pair of scissors we'd been using for some project or other, and... cut her hair. She chose a chunk on the left side of her face and cut her long, beautiful, waist length hair to her chin. Right there in front. No way of hiding it.

My wild fey little fairy had a large chunk of hair missing.

I don't know who cried harder, me or the Husbandly One. Because... it was a big enough chunk that it couldn't be hidden, or "fixed." She had to have a haircut, and oh, she didn't like it, not one bit, because she enjoyed having her hair braided, and being able to do all kinds of fun things with her hair. We took her to a salon, and she had a cute little chin length pageboy cut that made her look absolutely adorable... but we missed our wild fairy, oh, so much!

Okay, so... cut to last night. The Impossible Son is over his bout with strep and went back to school yesterday, but now I'm fighting it off, and by the time I picked the kids up from school, I was shivering and had a very nasty headache and just wanted to lie down. So I did. Miss Impertinence came in to tell me she was bored, and I remember feeling a little anxious about this because truthfully? A bored Impertinence is NEVER a good thing.

I told her to find something to read, because seriously, we have a house crammed with books that she's barely cracked one fourth of, and she wandered out, shouting something vague over her shoulder, and I sort of dozed off. She came in my room sometime later, but since she didn't say anything to me, I didn't bother opening my eyes. Then THO came home, and I heard some loud talking, and a rather... dumbfounded silence, and then the ominous words, "Does your mother know about this?"

Okay, when my husband, when talking to the kids about me, addresses me as your mother... it's never a good thing.

So, she comes ditty-bopping in and says, "Look, Mum, I cut my own hair!" and turns around so I can see the back of it.

I can quite truthfully say that I completely and intimately understand the term, "shock and awe," now.

Before I lost my battle with the Wall of Fatigue, the back of her short haircut had come down just below the base of her neck. When she turned around to show me her handiwork, it was mostly right at or just above the bottom of her hairline. Where it wasn't skewing madly off at the diagonal. Because she had used a small hand mirror to see the back of her head when she cut it.

Y'all should be proud of me. I'm pretty sure I managed to keep "aghast" out of my expression, though I'm sure the "polite interest" I was aiming for probably looked more like "crazed serial killer." Or "my eyes are about to spontaneously pop out of my head while my eyebrows ascend into my hairline."

"Do you like it?" she asked with that big grin that really means, "please don't kill me or make fun of me."

"Oh, it's... um... um..." I floundered, then finally gave up and said, "Okay, that's gonna have to be fixed." Because there was just no way I was going to be able to adequately describe just how awful it looked.

And when she finally understood what I was saying, she said, "Well, what kind of cut do you think I'll have to get to fix it?"

I said, "Um... okay, think... Emma Watson..."

And I could see panic in her eyes because... she gets mistaken for a boy now with the feminine haircut she had before she'd mangled it, and I knew she was thinking it would only get worse if her hair was that short.

THO drove her into San Marcos after ordering me back to bed (because I'm trying not to come down with strep) to get her hair fixed because... there are no salons open after 5 in our small town. No, seriously, a lot of the businesses here roll up the sidewalks and lock the doors at 5 p.m.

They managed to salvage what she did to her hair and make it cute and girly without going the Emma Watson route. And she's actually taken my advice and today wore a shirt that leaves no doubt in anyone's mind that she is, indeed, a girl. However, I told her that should she continue this trend and decide to cut her own hair when she's 24, she's on her own as I will be officially not responsible for bad haircuts, dubious fashion choices, or shoe fails. They will all be on her ticket!

Now if I could just convince the Impossible Son to get his hair cut...