Wildebeest considers me the enemy. The Man.
His friends are nervous around me as a result of
the Wildbeest rants they’ve heard over the years.
I’m strict. I’m controlling. I’m a hippie freak. I don’t
like video games about killing. I make him take vitamins.
Friday night Wildebeest had his two best friends over for a sleepover.
One friend, D, is on the wrestling team. D’s coaches told him
he needed to cut his Shaggy-do before the next day’s tourney or
they’d cut it afterward using the tape scissors.
After much consultation including me reminding everyone what
Wildebeest’s bangs looked like in sixth grade when I accidentally
chopped them off WAY too high on his forehead, we came up with a plan.
Wildebeest did the early work as he used the clipper’s #5 attachment
to remove inches of hair. J snipped rogue strands. I offered suggestions
and swept the floor. When it got to the final shaping stage, I took over
Two hours after we started the consultation, D had a new haircut. And you
know what he said?
“My mom was right. She kept telling me I’d look better with short hair.”
Did Wildebeest immediately ask for his haircut?
Is that okay by me?
Hell, yes. We choose our battles around here and hair ain’t one of them.
D looks good. Wildebeest is actually proud of my help with D’s hair.
And yesterday when J overheard Wildebeest giving me some mild-mannered lip,
he admonished Wildebeest about being sassy.