In two weeks my daughter is having her third birthday party in the theme of Peppa Pig Goes to the Circus. Timely huh with the release of the Peppa Goes to the Circus DVD. Also following another Peppa Pig party I felt we needed to add a different element.
So for the past few weeks I’ve been trying to find a circus we can go to to gear her up for the big event. I shall blog about the party another day when I’ve built myself up for it. It’s been somewhat of a talking/bartering point since Christmas.
So yeah, the circus – we have yet to find one that isn’t too long, in the day, on when we want and according to Mr Mother Fudger has animals. In his traditional outdated views, apparently “if there isn’t a sealion balancing a ball on its nose it isn’t a circus and I’m not interested”. He didn’t stop there with his rather dubious un-pc views in saying “I don’t want to see some French man dressed in neon lycra bouncing on an enormous ball”. I’m too swayed by The Guardian and the leftie views of animal welfare, so we are at somewhat of a stalemate.
Until the other night when we decided the vagabond look of Mr MF needed tackling and it was time for the hair cut.
The hair cut is one of these testing times in the history of our relationship. I have no idea when I began cutting Mr MF’s hair or why. I don’t know if it was same time he saw “mug” written on my forehead and apparently I was taking responsibility for the laundry, but suddenly it was one of my tasks.
I think a naive eagerness to use clippers may have been the hirsute carrot dangling in front of me. And I’d seen my mum cut my dad’s hair and it always looked fun. Plus I like a challenge.
The first time I cut Mr MF’s hair using the clippers I was, erm, too eager. It wasn’t until someone behind him at work said “has a dog been chewing your head” that he knew perhaps my bravery was his downfall.
I have progressed and we have hidden the clippers. I use scissors and have my special finger method where I’m pretending I run a salon in my head and am a pro. This was fun until we had children.
Hair cuts historically happen in the evening. Now our evenings pretty much take the structure of:
– insane and intense dinner, including cooking, feeding, clearing
– CBeebies (obviously)
– tantrum about going for a bath, tantrum about having hair washed/teeth brushed or the wrong parent lifting out of bath
– wrestling pyjamas on the toddler, wrestling hair being combed, reading 42,000 books 3,300 times
– rapid returning said toddler until she stays in room
– collapse on sofa and agree no talking or general movement while willing my body for its second wind so I can do the remaining daily chores that lay ahead.
Including a hair cut in this is like torture.
So we decided, what the hell – let’s do it in the daytime.
Let the circus begin.
I set up my salon: that’ll be the floor in the conservatory for Mr MF to take his seat.
The boy child generally likes to be held pretty much the whole time. If he’s not being held he also likes to post things in the toilet and incite me or Mr MF screaming for fear he has caught the plague from holding the toilet seat. So Mr MF held the boy child.
Our daughter took her seat next to Mr MF and her brother and decided the hair cut was going to be the best adventure ever.
So I began.
Mr MF’s mane started falling to the floor and the boy child grabbed it and wanted to eat it. Chunks of it. Mr MF moved fast to scoop out the excessive amount of hair but the boy child wasn’t put off and continue his hair eating mission he did.
The girl child started to gather the mounds of hair while I worked in an Edward Scissorhands kinda way to get the job done. But rather than help with the clear up she thought showering it like confetti up over her was much more fun.
Please note at this stage both children had been covered in sun cream a few hours before. They were at their prime tackiest.
The boy child had now had enough of eating the hair and was clearly unhappy about the thousands of hairs stuck to his face. He also didn’t understand why Mumma wasn’t holding him. So Mr MF decided bouncing him would be the best option.
As well as the bouncing he kept swishing his head to turn to our daughter, and back to our son. Cutting the hair of a moving target isn’t easy.
I eventually finished the hair cut and it looked alright considering the circus. But in future I think we’ll have to wait for the second wind – if it ever comes.