The girlie must have been watching Britney Spears on YouTube behind my back. I give you Exhibit A, below, right: what the lil’ monkey hath wrought, aided and abetted by her artsy crafty scissors. Yes, that’s her hair. Correction, was her hair.
I didn’t freak out after her first bout with the shears. That is, after I knew what had happened. I’d been distracted by feeding her brother, and went to check in on her at her “art table,” where a suspicious quiet had fallen. I asked her how she was doing, and lovingly began to pet her head, when her hair began to come out in clumps in my hands.
Quite naturally I was spooked. “Yegods! Cancer?!! Chemical attack?!! Homespun curse from a grudge-bearing preschool enemy?!! Dammit, girl, would it kill you to share the Polly Pocket Dolls?!! Look what happens!!” Then I saw her scissors on her art table, and some tell-tale evidence in the way of yet more hair.