to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

Apparently not enough to finish one girl’s haircut.

Let me start by stating that I’m not at all qualified to cut hair. Sure I watch my stylist Katie as she carefully sections out my hair and smooths it between her fingertips before snipping the ends. Watching someone cut your hair should never be confused with beauty school training.

And being coerced into giving Shanel short bangs back in 1998 while on a road trip to Krisit’s house also does not count as cosmetology experience. Neither does cutting the hair on only right half of my brother’s head when he was in sixth grade.

I did work as a Retail Service and Sales Consultant, a fancy name for receptionist at an Aveda Salon while I was in college. While they did provide extensive training in the Aveda Way, they did not let us handle scissors.

And while I do give my sweet grandma a lovely trim every summer when we visit her. She would tell you that it takes a long, long, might-need-to-stand-up-and-stretch-for-a-moment time. And her hair is short to begin with.

So why would I think that I could cut the hair of my innocent child who’s lovely locks are longer than mine?

Partly because I was trying to be thrifty and economical. She is only three. Surely she doesn’t need to sit in an actual barber chair yet. And partly because we switched over the envelope system back in February. Yes, envelopes, the system of your wise grandparents. Credit cards, they are so 2006.

So now there is an envelope with “haircuts” written on it. Seriously, this is not a joke. It says haircuts and the cash in it is designated for haircuts and there is no more money for haircuts than what is in that envelope. Get the system?

Nate dips into the envelope every four weeks to keep his hair in the range of “Hi-I-work-in-technology.” And frankly, I want all the rest of the money for myself.

Last week, a boy in my Sunday School class asked me if Ava was my sister. My sister! And this week a mom in Ava’s preschool room asked me if she was my cousin or my niece. Now, you must understand that nothing makes me prouder than being Ava’s mama. I love being a Mama!

But, I did turn thirty in March. Thirty. Hearing someone infer that I don’t look old enough to be my 3-year-old daughter’s mother when I am in fact thirty and have begun to see signs of premature graying is like getting to blow out a few less candles on my birthday cake. Which is almost better than opening presents, but not quite.

And I’m not sure if that has anything to do with my hair, but this is not a risk I’m willing to take.

And really I do it all for my grandma. Because nothing says you’re old like having a granddaughter with gray hair. Seriously.

So with this understanding and the fact that snarls have taken up permanent residence in Ava’s sweet head, I sat her and sopping wet hair on the stool in the kitchen, handed her a orange Tootsie Roll pop, and sharpened my scissors.

The plan was for a quick and easy trim. I was merely going to clean up her ends. I started in the middle and cut my way to the front.

I went around and around, trying to make it even. The pile of hair was increasing as the lollipop was decreasing. My time was running out.

When I finally thought it was even. I tried to get fancy and do this layering thing that Katie does to my hair. Did I mention that I don’t have any scissor skills? Yep, I don’t.

It looked like some one had hacked her hair with a dull paring knife. I trimmed it all up again. And since, I’m quite dull myself, I tried the layering thing again! Same effect.

By this point, Ava had gotten to the center of the Tootsie Roll Pop and I was standing on a mountain of hair.

“If I can just even out the front, I’ll call it good,” I resigned as I held out the front two sides of her hair. I was not about to leave her lopsided hair like I had done to her uncle not too many years ago.

“Ava, look up at me,” I said, trying to see if the two sides where even.

Ava did not look up. Her jaw was battling the giant tootsie roll while chocolate sugar water oozed out of her mouth.

“Ava, look at me,” I repeated as she continued in her Tootsie Roll trance. “Ava, Ava, look up at me. Ava look at me.”

She continued to consider the Tootsie Roll goodness from a downward perspective.

“Ava…Look…At..Me.”

I cupped her chin in my hand and pulled her face up to mine and repeated strongly, “Ava, when I say ‘look at me’ and I want you to look at me. Now look at me.”

This was not a shiny moment of my mothering.

Ava’s eyes did not leave mine as I attempted to complete the “quick trim.” Soon big salty tears where dripping down to mingle with the chocolate sweetness gathered in the folds of a fallen smile.

This is why students start on mannequins. No one should be subjected to this. Certainly not a three-year-old!

“Ava, Mama’s almost done. I promise Mama won’t ever cut you hair again. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like Mama to cut my hair.”

“I don’t like to cut your hair either. Would you like Katie to cut your hair?”

She nodded and continued to gnaw on the stick while I retired the scissors and released her from her towel cape.

After a long hug and a few more “I’m sorry”‘s, we swept up the pile of her hair together.

Ready or not Katie, here she comes.

Hope you have a large stash of Tootsie Roll pops.

[Writer's note: This post was originally written on November 15th (so never fear you MyCharmingKids fans, I did not in fact steal Jennifer's post title--we apparently think alike--oh, and if you want to see what how the clever photographer used the title, go here). I didn't post it earlier because it was too long and needed a trim. Well, I'm not any better at trimming my writing than I am at cutting hair, so here it is in all it's long, free-flowing glory. Apparently I need an editor.]