Hurcuttin’, 5 o’clock Shadows and Adulting

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Today was hurcuttin’ day at the Abernathy’s. When you have as many heads as we do, you improvise.

Since we spend so much money on peanut butter, mayonnaise and toilet paper, there’s really no room in the budget for new underwear or haircuts.

So, to cut budgeting corners, we Google a lot of stuff to see how we can do it ourselves. We’ve gotten surprisingly adept at the ‘jerry-rigging’ skill set and are always impressed by the sheer numbers of people willing to basically “give their milk away free” on YouTube and the interwebs, so we don’t have to buy the cow…which is funny because every time I go to the dairy to buy actual milk, Clifford, the dairy-man (who is a phenomenal human) says, “Dang, girl. Just buy a cow.”

I always chuckle and reply, “Clifford, you know I grew up on a farm and milked a cow everyday. Look inside that bus I drive there…does it look like I need to be required to yank on any mammal’s nipples twice a day, 365 days a year? I’ll leave that to the expert.”

He always chortles good naturedly and replies something like, “Just kidding, Jesi. Keep having babies and drinking lots of milk. You keep me in business.”

“…weeeeelll. I’ll keep buying ridiculous amounts of milk but my baby-machine is closed for business.”

Anyway. Back to the hurcuttin’. There’s a lot of hair growing in our household and luckily for me, I gave birth to this exceptionally artsy-fartsy and cosmetically gifted woman-child.

Speaking of hair growing – are you ever shocked by how, as we age, our desirable hair – like on our heads and eyelids cease to grow while undesirable fur like on our nipples and upper-lip start growing thickly and furiously? What gives here? Whose idea was this?

I daily lament that I can’t pluck my disgusting stomach hairs and repurpose them to my eyebrows. *scowls*

Once upon a time, the Mister and I were on a much-needed cruise sans children and the oldest girl-child FaceTimed us and begged to let her give the twins their first haircut.

I immediately bristled and became like a ferocious dog. I was very hesitant because first of all, I really dislike it when people give little boys jacked up crew cuts which make them look like rickety, vitamin-D deficient cancer patients and second of all, these are my last infant-baby-children and I was all sentimental and mushy and I loved their little wispy baby hair.

I wasn’t sure I could relinquish that much control over my last babies and their personal hygiene. If someone was going to mess up their beautiful, golden baby curls, it was sure as heck gonna be me, which, let’s face it – my track record for haircutting success is pretty dismal. (The bangs incident of 2011 comes to mind…how was I supposed to know her frothy baby hair would shrink like 3 inches?)

My husband, ever calm and rational and stoic gently coerced me into releasing my hellacious grip on the infancy of my last two little nuggets and letting my girl spread her artistic wings and flex her hair-dresser muscles.

I frantically explained to Hailey (then 14) and Hannah (then 11) that they must meticulously document every single moment of the process, narrate frequently and snap at least 4,000 photos. They agreed excitedly.

Later that day, we received an email full of videos and photos. I might have shed a couple ounces of salt water from my eye holes, but the results were awesome.

They stripped the boys to their diapers and put them in their high chairs and got to work. I was shocked to find that she did a fantastic job. I realized right then that she was indeed talented and that letting go could be beneficial for this control-freak mommy.

That was all she wrote. Hailey has been our resident cosmetologist ever since. She cuts everyone’s hair, does our eyebrows and lashes and make-up and watches endless make-up tutorials to keep us all updated with weird trends like feather eyebrows and fake freckles drawn on noses. (How did I ever survive before faux freckles?)

If we need something personal-hygieney done, I give her an assignment to scour YouTube and Google and figure it out by the end of the day. That’s what I call ‘on the job training’ and Real-World-Schooling.

So, short story long, today was hair cutting and eyebrows day. She gave the boys haircuts, trimmed my hair and did my eyebrows which are a runaway train that she is somehow able to save.

In return, I cut her hair and do lovely things like feed her vegetables and healthy fats and buy her socks and tampons. We also bought her a professional set of clippers, scissors and an adorable baby hair cutting cape for Christmas.

It was one of those gifts like a bowling ball that she opened up and was like, “Thanks, guys. Is this for me or for you?”

Just kidding. She was super excited to receive clippers and scissors for Christmas. We’re especially utilitarian up in here.

Now, if only she’d be willing to learn how to crochet homemade underwear or darn socks…

The boys know when it’s haircutting time, they get suckers. They rush to the high chairs yelling, “Canny, canny!” which translated into English means, “you can do whatever you want to me as long as lollipops are involved.”

This is always a fun little experience because they get the sticky sucker spit all over their faces and hands which subsequently cause hair-stickage which produces the most adorable five-o’clock-baby-shadows and hairy palms you’ve ever seen.

It also makes me dry-have the entire time because I have some irrational fear of hair. It freaks me out because it sticks to everything and gets in your eyes and mouth and ears and you can’t get it out. I’m always imagining it burrowing it’s nasty way into my innards and curling diabolically around my intestines or stabbing into my eardrums.

I’m also terrified of glitter and holes and shower drains, but that’s beside the point. (Fear of holes is REAL, people. Trypophobia. Look it up. Thank you Google for putting a label to my insanity) *barf*

If the picture of the hand covered in disgusting holes makes you especially twitchy, you might be afflicted. Ask your doctor.

I’m off track here, as usual. We got our hair cuts and eyebrow shaping done and the world seems a little shinier and brighter today. My fifteen year old feels a sense of duty and purpose and that, in turn helps her feel important and needed, which is essential to healthy teen-hood.

She’s able to hone her skills and figure out what she loves so that when it’s time to make a plan for post-childhood, she’ll have a better idea of what floats her boat and what she can do with herself.

She knows that playing video-games in our basement whilst enjoying a never-ending adolescence filled with Luncheables and Sunny D isn’t an option in this three-ring circus, so she’s on the path to becoming a real-live adulting success story.

She’s always telling me how she’s got a plan to move into her own apartment comeplete with a kitchen cacti garden, pet Corgi and a Black Bear Hamster the minute she’s 18.

I’ll admit that her detailed escape plan makes me balk and blubber just a little bit, but then I emphatically inform her that we have exactly the same plans for her future.

“We’re on exactly that page here, Sister. You want out, I want you out. One less hole to pack with food everyday is a-ok by me. But let’s get through driver’s ed and algebra before you put a deposit on that puppy. ”

I’m really am excited about her future here, folks. Because of my PreGAM (Pre Grown A$$ Woman), no one looks like a bald prisoner and so far, it seems nobody has plans for hanging around sucking the parental teet for 40-45 years.

It’s shaping up to be a real good day. Real good.

If you’d like to donate underthings to the Abernathy GoFundMePanties, click the link below.

I kid, I kid. We really can afford underwear. Have a great day, ya’ll.

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