Tragedy Strikes!

Last night as I was composing my blog post, my daughter was in the bath.

"Mom!" she yelled. I've long since learned to ignore everything that goes on the the bathroom if I'm not in it.

"Please cut my hair!" she yelled again.

I thought surely Shana would brush off this request, deflect, distract. It was already dangerously close to my daughter's bedtime.

However, attentive mother that she is, Shana instead picked up scissors and went to work.

At the first "Hold still" I started to blog more furiously. I knew my time was limited. I knew that eventually something would interfere with (at the very latest) my first cursory pre-post proofread.

Ducks.

Rubber ducks were in the bath with my daughter. As is their custom when they share a bath with her, they were bobbing around, chasing each other and debating the finer points of fashion.

"Oops. Garrick!"

I hit the "Publish" button and walked in to find my daughter crying hysterically and my wife holding a huge length of hair, her face composed into an almost eerie calm.

"Find an open salon. Now."

I didn't question. Google pulled through. I called:

"Can you make room for a haircut in," I looked at my watch,"20 minutes. It's an emergency."

"Let me check," Hold music. Hold music. Hold music.

"Is the hair cut for you?"

"It's for my daughter. There was some unpleasantness. There is a lot of crying. I need 300cc's of haircut, stat!"

"Sure. Bring her in."

So we ran to the car and drove, Gwynyth sobbing and Shana still exhibiting her eerie calm.

"Don't worry, Sweetie. They'll fix it," I said followed by a quieter,"I hope."

And we arrived at the salon (without the aid of flashing lights on the roof of the car which I thought might have helped) and they dashed in while I, with plans of my own, went to Target in the same shopping center.

I strolled the toy aisles, selecting one of a series of dolls Gwynyth likes and that (I was fairly certain) she didn't already own. I bought that and a Diet Coke Plus and left the store to find out what, if anything, had been done about the hair accident.

You know what? It looks good!

The toy was just a bonus. She did come through with quite a nice,"Thanks Dad!"

To which I replied,"I'm glad you didn't have that one. I picked it but, since your mom has the job she technically paid for it."

"Thanks!"

I continued,"So what I'm saying is, I bought it and your mom paid for it."

"Thanks, Dad . . . and Mom! Awesome, Dad!"

Yes. Yes I am.