in the shit

He's stepped in the shit now.

No, not the four year old. The Doofus I Married.

Rosey has had hair since birth. She came out with a fine crop of curly black hair (minus the crooked swipe the NICU nurses took off her bangs - okay, I get it, lifesaving (or at least monitoring) measures, but REALLY.
Once that grew back in, I started buying barrettes and pony tail holders, and plotting hairstyles. I liked having a girl, you see. I was also thrilled at the thought that I wouldn't have to scotch-tape bows to my daughters' head. (My aunt, an extremely fair skinned red-head, had no hair until she was two. Looking at the photo albums is a nightmare. At one point I thought my grandparents had some sort of psychotic break and dressed my uncle in flowered dresses and pinafores until he went to school.)

Roseys' hair is getting lighter, and longer. Her hair pattern is the same as her big brothers (which they got from me, the poor things) - all their hair grows forward. So her bangs have been getting longer, and longer.
The D.I.M. and I were on the same page at that point. Most girl-babies I have seen with haircuts (before the age of two) look scalped. So we both told people "Oh, no. We're just going to let her hair grow for awhile." We both became really good at the one-ponytail-on-top-of-the-head routine, and I was pretty quick with the wee braids and the ponytails.
At Christmas, the in-law murmuring grew louder. Rosey's hair was just long enough to swoop it behind her ear - okay, it wouldn't stay, but soon she would have one-length hair, and then - this would all be easy. I bought some pretty sparkly bobby pins and captured her renegade bangs.
At New Year's, FIL cornered me. 'When are you going to cut her hair?' I went into the song-and-dance (Tra-la-la! We're not! Get over it!) Bear.....was silent.

It was at that point that I should have known.

Last night I went to bed early. Both kids were up. Bear was doing Daddy duty, and I wanted to read and fall asleep. Besides, it was his night to give the kidlets their bath.
When I woke up this morning and went to take Rosey out of her crib, something looked different. But she stank a bit and I hadn't had coffee, so downstairs we went to remedy both problems. It wasn't until I was dressing her and plotting what hairthings would match her clothing (yes, I know, total weeny mom moment) when I NOTICED.

Dipshit had cut her hair. There was a growl of rage burrowing up in my gut. When I finally screamed, I think the windows rattled.
Bear came charging downstairs. 'What? What's wrong? Is Rosey okay? Ohhhh...yeah. That. I love you, remember?' But I was too far gone down the road towards mad to appreciate cuteness.
'What' I hissed 'DID you DO?' And it's a darn good thing Rosey only says mama, dada, and unh at this point, or else she would have learned a whole lotta new words.

Okay. We all know I suck with scissors. There was no way Rosey would sit still and let some stranger trim her bangs, so a salon visit was out. He took it upon himself to cut her hair because, as he said, defensively, 'It was in her eyes!' It's been in her eyes for months, ding-dong.

He will suffer for this. For months. Slowly. Or at least as long as it takes for her hair to grow back.