There are a few simple rules I expect daycare to follow: watch my child; do not hurt my child; empty my child’s diaper every so often; keep my child off porn sites (at least the ones involving goats or any Kardashian sisters or both); and, most importantly of all, do not, under any circumstances, CUT MY CHILD’S HAIR.
Behold the unwanted choppy bang trim courtesy of daycare — not that they’re fessing up to it, of course. So I guess her bangs just miraculously cut themselves. Amazing!
Granted, Skye’s bangs were getting long, but that was a positive development because I could almost put a barrette in them — a new style option that made me overwhelmingly giddy. So not only has Skye’s self-appointed mystery stylist deprived me of experiencing my daughter’s first haircut, but she has also deprived me of ACCESSORIZING MY DAUGHTER WITH FABULOUS, SPARKLY BARRETTES.
I haven’t been this upset since McDonald’s refused to let me walk through the drive-thru to order a crispy chicken sandwich. Yes, alcohol may have been involved.
After I asked Skye’s primary teachers about the mystery cut — I don’t think it was either of them; Detective Candy suspects it was one of the afternoon assistants who would always slather Skye’s hair with gel and slick it back, as though she were a member of Arthur Fonzarelli’s old street gang — the director of the school called and “assured” me that none of her teachers would do such a thing, nor would they let any of the other children run around with scissors and play Vidal Sassoon.
“But I did notice her hair was shorter,” she admitted.
“Uh, YEAH,” I replied with my usual eloquence.
So I did the only thing I could in this bizarre and frustrating situation: asked Skye who cut her hair.
“Kitty!” she exclaimed, as she responds to most all questions.
Ah-HA! I should have known it was Marcy; her not-so-subtle way of exacting revenge for tormenting her with yet another bully — accomplished with no opposable thumbs, no less. Well-played, Marcy. Well-played, indeed.
Oh, and did I mention…? Grrrrrr.