The Unfortunate Haircut

I have been contemplating cutting Lucy's hair for weeks now. It has begun to have the indecisive, fluffy quality of someone who is growing out a hairstyle. No blunt edges, tufts in sticking out in odd places. A little like when I had that bad Jennifer Aniston shag in 1995.

We are in El Paso for a long Easter weekend, and I decide that the only way I can cut her hair is with the magical help of Baga. As Baga distracts her with a doll, I wet a comb and cut. And cut. And cut.

Now, instead of having a vague non-hairstyle, she has the kind of haircut that makes you say, "Aw, does your mom cut your hair?" The kind of haircut I had until I was about nine (and partially blame for my lack of social life in elementary school). You know, bangs a little too short and too close to the ears?

She's a cute kid, so this haircut is not going to ruin her life. But if she had a beard she would look like an Amish farmer.