Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Before and After

So, anyone who knows James knows that his nickname is "The Beast" and that he wears it proudly. Part of the origin of the nickname can be attributed to his beastly head of hair. In high school, he says, he cut it once a year for rugby season, and he has been trying to relive his high school days for a while now. Well, it's been exactly (ok, give or take a few days) a year since his last hair cut, and he decided it was time. A few of his reasons:
1.) His long hair got in his eyes while he was running. Sweat and hair in the eyes = no good.
2.) He wants to give a more professional impression.
3.) When his grandpa saw him on Sunday, he said to him, "James, I'm going to tell you what I told my son many years ago: You look awful."

So, it was decided. Time for a hair cut. James's wonderful cousin Stephanie was kind enough to come over to our house and teach me how to do a basic hair cut so that hopefully I can keep James's beastly mane in check during the year, since the man hates to go to the barber. Anyway, here are some pictures of the event:

James's hair was longer than mine for almost a week!

Pretty long, eh? I actually liked it, but he was ready to be done with it. So, here's the chopping:

 Stephanie hacking off the longer parts so we could get to it with the clippers.

 And here's me, doing my best to remember what Stephanie taught me.
 Nervous face.

All the crazy hair clippings.

And here's the after. Not the best pictures, but you get the idea.

 Creepy face.

Almost a real smile.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A Snippet #2

Another glimpse at life in the West home:

James talks a little bit too loudly about something... working for the FBI or something.

Me: Honey, I love you and I don't normally think you talk too loud, but Baby is sleeping... so, could you please just lower your voi...

James stares blankly at me, a hint of shocked offendedness on his face.

Me: ... you know, just a little...

James continues to stare at me.

Me: Come on, honey, I'm just asking you to talk a little quieter, you're looking at me like I'm asking you to chop off your arm or something.

James (Clearing his throat, finally deigning to speak to me): Now, here's a question for you - how many times have you asked someone to chop off their arm, that you know what kind of look they would give you?

Me (Interjecting with rueful laughter): I have an imagination!

James (Not missing a beat): Are you lying awake at night, imagining this scenario - (mimicking me) What would you say if I asked you to chop off a finger? Now, what would you say to an arm? Continues mocking me until...

Me: This is going on the blog!