The Barber of Stumped Town
How many idgits does it take to give a dementia person a bad haircut? Apparently, three.
Like everyone else in this brave new world, Mom's gotten a little shaggy from a lack of beauty salon access. So, we took matters into our own hands for functionally disastrous results.
Ridiculously Tall Grandson #1 was the only one brave enough to brandish the sewing scissors, while The Boyfriend in the Basement and I worked crowd control for one.
So now Mom has an Art School Girl haircut. We had no choice that night but to deem her slanted bangs and uneven wispiness avant-garde, and declare we would enroll her in some pretentious art institute in the fall, complete with an all-black wardrobe, and The Cure continuously looped on her Bluetooth.
But the next day I had to revise our plans when she emerged from her shower looking like our regular old crazy lady who can once again view the world without her hair in her eyes.
I thank me and Mom's lucky stars for having Ridiculously Tall Grandsons and Boyfriends in the Basements who will spend an evening in idgit camaraderie, showering us with smiles and laughter, even while we're unwittingly Elmer-Fudd'ing our way through a Sweeney-Todd butchering of Mom's hair! (Sorry, Figaro.)