I'll take Lloyd Christmas for Halloween...

I trust my family to do anything for me. If I’m hungry, they feed me. If I’m dirty, they clean me. If I’m sad, they hug me. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it? However, I can now - with blinding certainty - drop one request from the trust tree.

The day in question started like almost any other – innocuous and virginal in the blank slate that it offered. Let it be said that I had been toying with the idea of giving my one-year old daughter a haircut for some time. The poor thing was born a hairy creature and she didn’t lose it like most babies. Rather, it continued to grow at an exponential rate. Lacking the ability (or desire) to push her hair out of her eyes, it was time I did something about it.

Now I can do most things myself if I put my mind to it, however after a dozen or so wrestling matches with my son in an attempt to give him a haircut (cue images of steer wrestling, mixed martial art holds, Twister mats drenched in canola oil…all these images would work), I decided to enlist the help of an expert. In hindsight, the expert was a rather vociferous, self-proclaimed one – let it be said my sister holds no certification whatsoever in the arena of hairstyling. At any rate, she offered to help and that was good enough for me.

So I packed up my daughter and we headed over to my sister’s place.

I asked her to take off a few inches.

In the flurry of hacking and snipping that followed, one would assume what she heard was: “Make her look like Lloyd Christmas.” I guess it sort of rhymes. One can see how these mistakes are made.

My job was admittedly easy - I was to hold the video camera to capture the inaugural first haircut. The first order of business was to introduce the concept of bangs so as to eliminate stray hairs from getting into her eyes. I must admit, the first cut looked darling. My sister occupied my daughter with a cupcake and snipped just above her eyebrows, revealing the perfect arches on her adorable face. At this point, I remember being momentarily distracted by my nephew and I turned to film him for a bit. Mere seconds later, I turned the camera back to the stylist and her prey, and damn near dropped the camera.

Me: What the @#$% are you doing?
Sister: I’m layering the bangs a little to thin them out.
Me: What? You can’t do that to a girl! She looks like the victim of accidental electrocution.
Sister: This is what I did for his. (waving scissors, rather maniacally, in general direction of her son)
Me: Yeah, but she’s not a boy. You can’t layer the top of the head to make it spike out. That only looks cute on a boy.
Sister: Good point. @#$%. What do I do now?
Me: Well, it looks ridiculous. I guess you’ll have to cut it all down to the shortest layer so at least there’s a chance of it lying in a straight line.
Evil One: Hmmm…I’ll see what I can do.

Now I’ve been told a picture paints a thousand words…here, in blinding detail, is the result of my sister’s “I’ll see what I can do.” I believe it’s called witchcraft.

That avocado Peanut's holding?

I believe she was intending to smash it over Auntie’s head,

however she lacked the requisite fine motor skills

 to complete said task.

My sister was quick to point out that the wrap-around fringe was completely unintentional, as was the upward skewing to the left. We thought maybe it would look better if we wet it down; this resulted in the complete and utter destruction of two grown women, as we lay rolling on the bathroom floor, our collective bladders releasing a little urine as they can no longer cope with this level of amusement.

So if your friend asks you to go as Dumb and Dumber for Halloween this year, don’t bother fretting over who’s Dumb and who’s Dumber…that’ll work itself out in the wash. Just insist they go as Lloyd and you stick with Harry.

p.s. For the record, I'm now a firm believer that a good cut at age one will lead to thick, healthy, shiny hair. Don't believe me? See photo below. Tell me this...does this mane belong on a three year old? Even the cat looks scared, attempting to camouflage itself against the towel, limp with fear at the jungle cat rising from the tub. I rest my case.