You could set your watch by it

It's not the warm, muggy weather that is starting to creep in and make you sweat all over.

It's not the lack of homework or plethora of school functions four out of the five nights per week.

It's not even the sudden urge to stop eating and drop 40 pounds because OH MY GOSH it's time to get into a swimsuit.

Though that is a serious problem.

How do you know that summer is almost here? These fabulous hair cuts, that's how.

Six years running, people.  That is a lot of hair history.

I give you the Mohawk Brothers of 2012.



And after:




I was hoping to find an explanation for behavior like this, but sadly, I don't think we can blame it on the mohawks.  I think we can blame it on the fact that they are boys.

And boys will always be boys.



Welcome back, summer. It's good to see you, old friend.

Oh, you'd better believe he's in the doghouse for this one

Remember the awesomeness that was the mohawks? You know, the ones that after four years I have finally embraced?


Somebody decided that we were done with them for this year and took the scissors to my poor boy's head:


No, it was not McKay, as you can see in this terribly out of focus picture. [Sorry. I was in a hurry.]

It was definitely not Chase or Hannah. Not even our cousin Emmie, who is fond of playing barbershop on her own bangs from time to time, committed this travesty. It was not the two-year-old boy who lives down the street.

Though we would expect such behavior out of him.



As you can see, he took the scissors to my little Mack's head, chopping to the scalp in some spots. One would THINK that a grown man would not attempt such a juvenile, foolish, and insensible act of vandalism.

The tragedy in all of this is the damage was unfixable by the barber. Not even the fine specimens one finds at the local Super Cuts could fix what the Husband had done.

So sadly, for the next month or two, this is what my darling boy will look like:


And believe me when I tell you, the angry look on McKay's face is mirrored exactly by my own.

The one bright spot in this bleak storm of blinding rage was Chase's comment to McKay. He said, "Don't worry, Mack. It takes confidence to wear a buzz. You'll see. You'll feel great by the time it grows back in."

Unfortunately, that will be long before I'm ready to forgive the Husband.

P.S. Have you seen my other blog lately? There are some amazing sessions for your viewing pleasure. Stop by and take a peek.

Rockin' the 'Hawks

The last week of school in the Casa de Stie signals more than just the beginning of summer. It has come to mark what I have finally accepted as an inevitable tradition, four years running now.

It began three years ago as a test of my marital patience, which you can read about here. This severe trial of my patience was revisited for the next two years, which you can see evidence of here and here, if you're so inclined.

This year, I took matters into my own hands (after listening to the begging, pleading, and sheer desperation from the boys, of course) and took them in for the deed myself.

And without further ado, I bring you this year's Mohawks:


We are pleased, but slightly shocked, that McKay decided to participate this year, potential middle school harassment notwithstanding. Every year, he's talked a tough game, but has always chickened out in the barber's chair at the first sound of the clippers roaring to life.

This year, he ponied up and just went for it. I think the Hawk goes nicely with his broken finger - makes him look like he maybe did get into a fight or suffer a wicked skateboard injury (instead of the unsightly fall during P.E. that really caused it.)


Chase, as ever, makes the Mohawk seem natural and right at home on his head. His hair was shorter this year due to the flaky chick at Super Cuts who was unable to follow the simplest of directions -- which just means we can't spike it up quite as high.

[He kind of reminds me of Puck from Glee. Which I secretly think is pretty cool.]

So here's to keeping traditions, the start of summer, and sun, glorious, sun.

Ahh, summer. Nice to see you, old girl. You've been sorely missed.

Why husbands cannot be trusted

I have resigned myself to the inevitable.

There are just certain things in my life that I have no say in, no matter how much I whine, beg, and plead.

I know it's shocking, as I am the queen of quite a lot around here. I run the schedules, bedtimes, shopping, budget, and even most of the home repairs. But sometimes, the Husband just has to step up and take control, leaving this plan-a-holic gasping for breath.

Oh, the nerve of that man.

Take, for instance, the case of my sweet, angelic boy. One could hardly look into these baby blues and find any trace of malice, misdeed, or negativity.

Now take a look at what happens to my sweet angel the MINUTE, I tell you, THE VERY MINUTE, his father gets a hold of him and takes him for a haircut:

Could it be...Satan?

Lucifer, out back practicing his sweet moves

In truth, I have simply accepted my fate. Every year, on the last week of school, my loving, sensitive middle child is going to always turn punk and sport a mohawk. (See here, and here for proof, if you don't believe me).

I tolerate it for maybe a week or two, and then the mohawk is replaced by a summer buzz cut.

Don't tell him, but secretly I love that he doesn't give a lick what people at school think or care at all if he stands out in the crowd.

His older brother, however, could not be more mortified.

So here's to embracing life fully, doing what feels good, and sporting your own kind of style. May we all find a way to do that in our own lives.

Just preferably not in the barber shop.

P.S. Courtesy of, the winner of the Yanni Voices tickets is Maren! Email me if you can go and I will turn your name in at the will-call box. Thanks, local peeps, for playing along. Maybe someday the sponsors will be generous enough to fly you ALL out here for a little show and a lot of Stie.

If only, right?

"Shelby was right, it DOES look like a brown football helmet"

All right, because you asked for it. Here is my new, unplanned hair. I still don't like it, but have at least managed to stop crying whenever I look into a mirror.

Pros of having short hair:
  • Not spending 25 minutes with a blow dryer every morning.
  • Not having to sweep up large piles of hair in the bathroom every day.
  • Less money spent on shampoo and product means more money that can be spent on shoes.
  • I could pose as a man and do undercover work, should I ever so desire.
  • On hot and humid days, my neck isn't nearly as sweaty.
  • No more ponytail headache.
  • Much more interesting bed head in the morning.

Cons of having short hair:

  • It's short.
  • It's really, really short.
  • It accentuates my fat neck (just ask the stylist from hell).
  • I don't know how to style it very well.
  • I am tempted to really tramp up the cosmetics in an effort to draw attention away from my hair, thus giving me a new look - drag queen in a bad wig.
  • Hannah still telling me how ugly it looks.
  • Having EVERYONE notice and comment on it is really embarrassing.
  • Every other commercial on t.v. is for hair products, demonstrated by models with long, flowing locks. Who mock my pain on purpose, I know it.
  • And I can do absolutely nothing about it.

P.S. Know the name of the movie where the title comes from? If you do, we are meant to be BFFs. If you don't, find out and rent it today.

Apparently I just don't speak hairdresser

Yesterday I made a mistake of colossal proportions. Ignoring the begging, pleading, and whining of the Husband, I proceeded, with my stubborn mind made up.

Girls, I am telling you now. Listen to your husbands. Sometimes, they just might be right.

I had decided that the time had come for me to cut my hair. And not just trim a little off the ends, but really cut. my. hair. It has been varying degrees of long for about the last six years.

And humidity and long hair? They don't get along so well.

I was tired of it and ready for a change, but also not wanting to go too short. So, for the last several weeks, I have been perusing websites, magazines, and people-watching in search of my new hair. One lucky day, I found it. It belonged to a girl who was innocently walking around the City Museum with her kids. Unbeknownst to her, I was stalking her hair, snapping away with my telephoto lens like a paparazzi. I had pictures of every angle of this hair, lest there be any confusion when I went in.

I need to pause in the telling of the hair story to tell you that I have not found my hair "person" here in St. Louis yet. I have gone in a few times for trims, but never really felt like I had found my stylist. Just haven't found that special someone. And if you're anything like me, this is a relationship that MUST be just right. It requires almost as much thought and prayer as choosing your spouse.

You know it's true.

So, armed with my arsenal of pictures, I made an appointment. The day arrived, and I excitedly headed in, ready to meet the new me.


The stylist I had blindly chosen did not agree with my hairdo of choice. She flat out refused to give it to me. Then, in a move I'll never fully comprehend, told me I was too old to be able to pull it off. Oh, and that it would accentuate my fat neck.

Excuse me?

There are a lot of parts of me that I will agree are fat and jiggly, but up until that moment, I was fairly confident my neck wasn't one of them. I should have gotten up and ran from her chair right then.

But the coward that I am, I stayed right there. And with a few thousand flicks of her scissors, she gave me her version of the haircut, which in no way, shape, or form resembled the one I was looking for. I left the salon in tears. My hair was not only A LOT shorter than I wanted, but I looked like I had a giant poofy bell taking up space around my head, ringing as I walked. It was HORRIBLE.

Calling and sobbing to the Husband did very little good, as he had advised against cutting it in the first place. To his credit, there were no "I told you so's," but we all know how well the men deal with the tears. They really don't know HOW to deal with them.

So, I frantically ran to my friend Mindy's house, tears streaming, and hair-bell ringing. Thankfully, Mindy is someone you can count on to be brutally honest, but in a kind, loving way. And with a hug and a diet coke, she handed me the phone and the number of a male stylist, the likes of which I should have seen in the first place.

A few hours later, lots of laughs in the second salon at my botched job, and my hair is as fixed as it can be. It is, unfortunately, really, really short. So short, in fact, that I am not in a mental place where I can even take pictures of it yet. In a few days I might be ready, but not today. I'm still working on coming down off this ledge.

Which would probably be easier to do if Hannah would stop telling me just how ugly it is, you know, every eight minutes or so.

By the way, she's for sale. Cheap. And she comes with a lifetime supply of polly pockets. Any takers?

The only bright rainbow in this cloudy hair storm? At least I found my new hair person. If only I'd found him a few hours earlier.