So I took the baby to get his hair cut last week. We (as in Haley, myself, Skylar, and Mom) went into the salon. The kids got called back immediately.
Haley sat in a chair. I sat in another chair to hold Skylar. He was okay. For like a minute. When the lady sprayed his hair, he got mad. Then he started crying. The woman clipped his hair as quickly as she could. He still cried. We gave him a sucker. He still cried. She kept clipping. He looked at Haley. He cried. He got madder.
If any of you have read "I fought Pooh in the washing machine," then you'll know what's going to happen. And yes, it happened. Skylar got so mad that he threw up all over himself, his smock, my smock, the floor, and me.
And it wasn't just your average little up-chuck. Oh no! It was grade A certified puke. And it was ruthless. It was clabbered milk mixed with some blue drink. It was everywhere. It gushed out of him like a geyser at Yellowstone. Awesome is not a word I would use, but the hairdresser stood there in awe. She was amazed such a little fellow could hold so much puke.
Mom took Skylar's clothes off and took him out to the car. I managed to clean up the mess, offered to take the smocks home and wash them, but the kind lady said no.
I went to the front to pay. The man asked me, "What happened?" I told him. He looked at me disgusted.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
"Yeah." I answered.
"You look a little pale." He said.
"I'm usually pale." I answered.
"No, you look kinda green." He said.
"Well, I'm used to the puke being on the floor." I said. "Not on me."
I told Haley to take her time. I went to the car. Skylar was fine at this point, but I was not. I looked down at my clothes.
My white capris had blue stains. My red shirt had white clabbered milk soaking through. How on this earth I had puke on my back, I'll never know, but it was there.
Haley finally came out to the car.
"It stinks in here." She said as she rolled down the window.
"I don't know why." I replied, turning up the AC full throttle.
"You stink." She said.
"Really?" I asked. "I hadn't noticed."
Not only does the stench still linger in my car, but my son has only half a haircut. It's short in the back, kinda long in the front. Like a reverse mullet. Like Lyle Lovett. Like those stupid boys who have bangs. I'll be damned if you ever see me taking THAT child to the salon again. He can look like a girl for all I care.
