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on saturday i ceased to be a pekingese.

sure, my hair isn't all that short -- if i slouch, my hair is practically shoulder-length -- but it is a lot shorter than it has been since paul was a wee tot.

paul whined in the car on the way to the hairdresser: "i DON'T want mommy to get a haircut."

paul screamed when he saw the finished product.

paul: i don't like your haircut!
paul: i don't like your haircut! [runs out the door]
me: i'll get him.
me: cam, PAY! [runs out the door]

he was more or less fine with it within ten minutes. i guess it didn't hurt that within that ten-minute span we bought him a pair of spiderman light-up flipflops. (hey, he needed a new pair -- his heels were hanging off the backs of his old ones.)

later than evening, i decided to test his haircut tolerance. putting on my glasses, i observed aloud that if i cut my hair shorter, i'd look like bre pettis.

paul: get another haircut.

suffice it to say that my hair was no longer a sore spot for him.



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