Yeesh.

I feel like crap. Not normal crap, week-old-in-the-middle-of-the-freeway-run-over-by-a-semi crap. The sore throat, headache, dizziness, and ear pain lead me to think I may be developing a scorching case of strep. One would hope not, as I have no time for that nonsense. I started feeling lousy at baseball practice last night, chills (which I never have) and a headache (which I usually have and that is why God invented ibuprofen). I got home and sent the offspring upstairs in search of showers with several admonitions. These are numerous, but repeated daily in the vain hope that just once, all will be obeyed. They are as follows: use soap, aim the nozzle away from the shower curtain, close the shower curtain, put the shower curtain inside the tub, leave the drain open, dry off before you get dressed, and put your towel up. With the amount of water that has been on that floor, not to mention the three, count 'em three, times water has come through the light fixtures in the hallway downstairs, I'm expecting to have the ductwork break through the ceiling and land on the hardwoods. Apparently, I need to add "don't chew gum and flip it over your head, especially in a hot shower." Spawn of Satan came downstairs and said, "Mommy, I need help." I was thinking it was only to get over the dog gate, but once again karma punished me for being so very naive. The little horned angel had flipped the gum out of his mouth and over his head. Then fearing (rightly so) my reaction had tried to remove the gum himself, thereby assuring us all that it was matted down to the roots.

You can see on his shirt where he didn't dry off before dressing.

Out of focus, but a better shot of the sheer mass of gum bonded to his baby-fine hair.

So, began the gumectomy. I tried hand-picking, icing then handpicking, a little peanut butter, icing and a fine toothed comb. All the while snarling in an undertone about just shaving his head and having done with it. His brother kept up a running commentary regarding reverse mohawks and baldness, his point being, while he didn't want to be bald, he wouldn't mind a reverse mohawk. Not wanting to get into a post doctoral thesis regarding genetics and the likelihood of these boys losing their hair, my only comment was "You want to look like a doofus?" Whereupon, Spawn of Satan began sobbing, "I don't want to be bald, I don't want to look like a doofus!"

I had, at this point, determined there was no help for it, but I needed to whip out the clippers. Amid the shrieks of "Don't make me bald!" and my gentle assurances of "Dude, knock it off, you're not going to be bald!" (I felt like crap and I was frustrated, that's as gentle as it gets) I slapped on a #3 guard and buzzed the little goober's head.

This being the end result(s):

That is a mass of hair. So, now, I have one sheep shorn, one who wants to be, and an Australian Shepard who doesn't care as long as he can take 'em down.