Hide the Scissors

My husband just now discovered this Blog. I told him THE DAY I started writing, but it’s just now occurring to him – “She’s writing stuff and people are reading it and WHAT DID YOU WRITE ABOUT MY oh my god no.”

And so this particular post is a special request by my husband.

I’ve mentioned my stepson before – he’s awesome. The three of us worked together for 5 years on the crewed charter yacht my husband and I owned, and there were some really, REALLY rough times. Like, Honey Boo Boo starving in an end-of-the-world apocalypse bad. There were moments we wanted to straight-up kill each other, and not in a nice way. Like, in a dip you in honey, roll you in feathers, and leave you out in bear country kind of way. We’re all a little dramatic.

But, like I’ve said before, There Was A Time. And that time was the past. Of all the things the three of us might be – angry, stubborn, bossy, moody, demanding, very creative in our ideas of torture – we are also forgiving. The three of us are bonded for life as a result of the serious trials we’ve been through, and therefore I am thankful for all the times we had together (some of them were hilariously good, by the way. I’ll tell you more of those later).

My stepson still works in the charter yacht industry, this time on scuba diving boats in the Bahamas. He typically works 6 weeks on, 1 week off, and he blessed us with his one week off, here at our growing mini-farm and homestead. He knew he was signing up to help build the Doemicile (goat structure for my Flower Girls), but that I would spoil him rotten as much as I possibly could.

As I might have mentioned before, that means a reverent cocktail hour. At the end of a long day of hard work, we clink our glasses together and say “Cheers” and thank each other for their awesome efforts from the day. The last night that my stepson was here, we continued clinking glasses – of my husband’s margaritas. I made tacos (reads: EPIC TACO NIGHT), my husband made margaritas, and my stepson entertained us with his sailing stories.

Somewhere in the vortex of margaritas, I decided I wanted bangs. Fringe. Whatever you call them – I found scissors and I cut my hair – yes ma’am, yes sir. That’s what I did, and I can’t tell you exactly why, because I don’t even know what possessed me to play hairdresser at midnight after a proper amount of tequila. I cut my hair and ran back outside, jumped in the pool, and moved on with life.

All I can say is – at least I did a good job. And also, it’s not my fault. Tequila.