One Time, my bad, Two Times, I'm an Idiot

I haven't been officially diagnosed but I'm pretty sure I'm a moron.  No, I didn't leave my baby in a store, or leave the back door of my new car open while I closed the garage on it...oh wait...well, that is not the idiotic thing I would like to discuss...which by the way, was probably quite a scene for our new neighbors - picture this: one blonde (just got my hair done, so I can say I'm a blonde for at least three more weeks) stomping back and forth in her husband's Uggs, that are six sizes too big, wearing some semblance of pajamas (if an old Duke t-shirt and some ratty sweatpants count) with no bra, (that's for my male readers) muttering "sh*t" over and over again, while my husband, dressed to the nines for work, tries to console me.  Welcome to the neighborhood - I'm crazzzy.

No, if you can believe it, and you faithful readers out there, I know, are already shaking your heads, there is something I've done equally (?), okay close to, as dumb now TWO times. What is it?  (Crap, now I've done so much build up...I hate when I do that.)  Anyway, as some of you lucky people might know, a few years back, the husband decided that I, someone who has never attended a beauty school class, would take on the job of cutting his hair.  After a few minor mistakes, I got to admit, I was sort of getting the hang of it.  And then we had a baby, and my brain slowly started to deteriorate.  Now, I'm incapable of reading and determining the correct blade numbers, which has caused me to TWICE cut his hair like he's entering the military the following day.  And the worst part about it is - while I'm running the razor over his head I'm thinking, "Hmmm...his hair must have been really long because a lot is coming off...oh well...oh...shhhh..."  It never occurs to me until I've just made the "never going back" run of across his head from ear to ear, that I stop and realize, I'm going to have to inform my sweet husband that I have, once again, committed a brain fart and destroyed his haircut.

And then the very worst part occurs...I actually tell the husband what I've done, and then I have to watch him slowly put his head down into his hands and stay like that for what seems like 10 minutes.  I cannot even begin to describe to you what is like to watch your shirtless husband, covered in hair, sit on a kitchen chair contemplating your death.  I guess the only way I can describe it is it's like a #4 razor to the heart when all you wanted was a #8.  You feel me? 

So, husband, sweet, sweet husband, please accept my public apology.  I will figure out the difference between a 4 and an 8 one day.  I promise.