Holy crap, last night took ten years off my life. If not more. I still have that feeling of WTF just happened. Let me start from the beginning.
So I’m sitting on the couch watching The Bachelor with my hubby when I get a text message from Zoey.
ZOEY (text): Mom I need help!
Of course, I’m like “OMG, my teenager wants me!” so I immediately jump up and run to her. She has 8th grade graduation pictures the next day, so I’m assuming it’s a beauty emergency like maybe she spilled a bottle of nail polish or got makeup on her white dress. I wish. Either scenario would have been better than what I walked into. Wayyyyy better.
I run upstairs and I can see the light seeping out from under my bathroom door, so I knock and the door opens slowly, and that’s when I see.
Oh. My. God.
Zoey is standing there with tears in her eyes and a comb stuck in her hair, only that doesn’t do this scene justice AT ALL. How do I explain this? Ummm, imagine if you had a comb and you took a huge portion of your hair like right where bangs would be and you started wrapping it around the comb only you start with the ends so the ends are all tucked in and there’s literally no way to see where the hair even begins. That.
(This is where I would include a picture if I took one which I did NOT. And yes, she said I could write about this.)
ME: What were you trying to do?!
ZOEY: (crying) I saw it on TikTok.
AGGGHHH, F’ing TikTok!!!!!!!
Anyways, you guys, I cannot begin to tell you how incredibly stuck this comb is. There is absolutely no way for me to unwrap the hair because the ends are all tucked in. And the comb is almost on her scalp so if I cut her hair out, she would have a buzz cut on the front of her head. F F F F F F F F, what do I do?!!!!!!
I am shitting bricks. Like literally, if you peeked in my granny panties, you would find a pile of big ole cement bricks.
So I try to calm myself down. It’s okayyyy, it’s only hair, and who cares if her graduation pictures are tomorrow? She can just attend the make-up pictures in a few weeks. But then I’m like WTF, no, this is NOT okay because if I cut her hair out of the comb, her bangs will literally be like a millimeter long and mayyyybe a centimeter long by graduation. And she’s not even gonna graduate anyway because how am I gonna make her go to school with bangs that are worse than dumb and dumber? OMG, this is a nightmare.
So I tell myself I HAVE to get this hair out without cutting it. I start trying to unwrap the hair from the comb, and the whole time I’m trying, I’m muttering, “Zoey, what did you do?” which of course just makes her more upset so I stop talking altogether. I quickly realize there is absolutely no way. Like nothing is working. This hair is STUCK STUCK STUCK. I’m pretty much crying at this point.
ME: Honey, I’m going to have to get Dad to come help.
ME: I have to.
So I call my hubby in. He takes one look at Zoey and says…
HUBBY: What did you do?
Which of course makes her start crying more, and I’m like why the hell would you say that to her, failing to mention that I just said the same exact thing. For the next few minutes, he tries to get the hair unwrapped with the same results I’ve had. Nothing is working.
ME: I wish I could just break the comb. That would make it easier.
HUBBY: I can try to break it.
At which point he starts to try, but A. this comb is basically made out of the strongest thickest plastic on earth, and B. If he snaps it, it’s going to hit Zoey’s head and potentially lodge into her brain.
We are up shit’s creek. And not in a hilarious Johnny and Moira kinda way.
That’s when I have an idea.
ME: Maybe we can cut the comb apart with something.
HUBBY: Good idea. Zoey, wait here.
And both of us run through the house and come back with tools. I’m holding the heavy-duty shears I use to cut flowers. My hubby is holding the three-foot long tree trimmer. Apparently I want to cut the comb out, but he wants to cut her head off. WTF?
Needless to say, we go with my tool first.
ME: Greg, you hold the hair back while I try to cut the comb.
So my hubby peels away a little bit of hair, and I try to snip off a piece of the comb without snipping off his fingers. With a shit-ton of force, I’m able to snap off a few of the tines, which immediately turn into lethal projectiles that will probably shoot our eyes out.
So he runs to get a pair of safety goggles for me and a pair of sunglasses for him, and we keep going. Since I didn’t take any pictures (yet), you can only imagine how ridiculous this scene looks. Zoey with a comb stuck on her forehead, me wearing safety goggles, and my hubby in Terminator sunglasses.
Anyways, I clip a little more of the comb off. And then a little more. And a little more. And each time I clip some plastic off (and we all duck and cover), I’m able to slide an itty-bitty strand of hair off the comb.
Holy crap, I think it’s working. Slowwwwwly, but it is coming off. I clip that mother F’ing industrial comb for like 30-45 minutes. Clip, duck, slide. Clip, duck, slide.
ME: Zoey, one day I promise, you will be able to look back on this and laugh.
Oh my God, I hope this turns into a laughable moment.
And when the last bit of hair is out, we are standing in a room that is covered in tiny pieces of purple plastic and Zoey is still an emotional wreck, but she has her hair. All of it. As I carefully brush out the giant tangled mess, my heart is still pounding. Deep breaths in and out.
And she’s sitting on the edge of the toilet still crying so I crouch down to look into her eyes and tell her it’s okay. And that’s when both look at each other and just burst out laughing. Like hysterically cracking up. At which point she picks up an itty-bitty piece of the comb from the floor and starts combing her hair with it.
And we laugh so hard we can barely breathe and talk about how horrendous this was but how it could have been soooo much worse. Oh man, this parenting thing is so F’ing hard. But sometimes, every once in a while, the days you think might be the worst actually turn into the best, most bonding ones.
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