Satan's Spawn #2 has been hassling for to have his hair cut for the past week. Every time he has brought it up I've said that I don't want to do it. Tonight he started again and I told him the clippers are getting sad and don't work properly and I'm not dicking around with it. Nag nag, whinge whine.

So I gave in.

I trimmed it all over and he bitched that it was still way too long. I said I didn't want to do any more and fuck it up but he insisted that it had to be wayyyy shorter than it was. So I said "you want short, I'll give ya bloody short" and I started in with the #1 comb. It was going good; I had 2/3 of the back done when the clippers stopped clipping. And didn't start again. Well, you should have heard him (and seen him) bitching and moaning at how awful it looked and there was no way he was going to school looking like that and why don't I just use scissors and a comb ("so you know where my scissors are then? And a comb?" "No." "Bugger huh.")

In the end after a lot of screaming and yelling, which he joined in, I went to the Red Shed and bought some new clippers. Now he's a #1 (or is that a # 0.75) all over and sounds like a crappy Macca's advert strutting around saying "I'm loving it".

He knows better than to say he doesn't love it. Now I should go and find something decent to wear in case Murray remembers we have a coffee date tomorrow morning.

You never know your luck.