Man, growing up we were always at the hands of her scissors. It went on until we were about 10 or 12. I remember we would get to her house and she would say something about us needing a haircut. The next thing you know one of those step stools with the chair on top was quickly placed into the center of the kitchen, the shears with black handles came out you know, the kind she used to cut practically everything and we were subjected to her snipping off of our precious just grown back hair. It's not like she was a beautician, far from it. She worked for Alexanders in Queens in the Woman's Department. Our parents never said anything, she never asked, just cut our hair way to short and never even. It was great when we were old enough to say no to the cutting or perhaps our parents had started bringing us somewhere to get our bangs cut because I remember her asking, "do you need a haircut?" and we would quickly say :"no thank you". All the while praying that she wouldn't push it.
I have to laugh at my father's little photo shoot here; a wrinkled white sheet and a red rug remnant. Nothing says, white trash like a make believe Sears photo session.
Let's look at the placement of my hands shall we? Who decided that was the way they should be? Certainly not me, my face says please them. Obviously someone placed them and told me not to move.
Got to love my parents. I am assuming it was either Easter or a visit to one of the grandparents. Dress shoes, a yellow dress, a little cross necklace and a badly placed cheap barrette.
Still a cute picture and can't believe that little face is mine.
Do you have any photos of you on your blog? Link up so I can see them.