The Other Side of the Story . . .

My mom loves to tell the story of when I cut Denise's hair. The way she tells it, she and my dad had been out for the evening; when they got home, they went into the bedroom to check on the littlest girls (Denise and me). Denise was asleep in her bed with a hat on. Mom thought that was odd. When she removed the hat, she was shocked to see that Denise's hair had been butchered! (Yes, "butchered" is Mom's word.) Apparently her hair was very short all over and cut to the scalp in some places. Mom also found one of our dolls with the same stylish hairdo. She says she made Denise wear a bonnet every time they went out, for a long time. That's how Mom tells it.

At last, after 35 or so years of concealment, here is my side of the story:

First of all, I'm not sure how old we were; I'd guess I was between four and six years old which would make Denise between one and four. But what I do remember is this: It was school picture time; that meant that in the evening you could take your whole family to the school and get a family picture for a really good price. So we went. And when we got there the photographer went on and on and on about how cute Denise was and, specifically, what beautiful, long hair she had. He just couldn't get over how much beautiful hair that baby had, and there was my mom agreeing with every word he said. And this little, blue-eyed angel was bitten by the green-eyed monster! After all, my hair was longer than Denise's, and it was a pretty color; but nobody was saying anything about that. Huh!
[picture: blue-eyed angel]

It was probably not the same night as the photo session. I remember my parents were not home. I remember that all my brothers and sisters were in the living room, watching TV. I remember trying to talk Denise into letting me cut her hair—maybe I even pointed out that Mom had short hair, or perhaps demonstrated on the doll. I don't remember what I told her. I do remember sneaking across the hall, through my parent's room, through their bathroom and into the kitchen to get the highchair, then sneaking all the way back to our bedroom with the chair. (How did my siblings not notice that?) I remember Denise "had to be in the highchair" so I could cut her hair.

I don't remember cutting her hair, or the doll's hair, or cleaning up or putting away the highchair. I don't remember what her hair looked like when I was finished with it. I don't remember putting Denise to bed with a hat on. I don't even remember getting in trouble—unless you count Mom telling the story over and over again for the whole rest of my life. :-) But that's just funny.

Now you know my side of the story.

I can't tell you if this picture is just before the hair-cutting, or the year after. I'm guessing it's the year after—see how short Denise's hair is?

Bonus Note: Surely you have all heard of the "Mother's Curse"—you know, the one where your mom curses you with children who are just like you. Well, Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica—hmmm; and I think Ryan, too—all went through about three years of scissor-happiness. It seemed like every time I turned around they were cutting their own hair, each others' hair, the cat's hair . . . sheets, T-shirts, pillowcases, you name it. Mom got her revenge!