Another First

Last night, having finally made it upstairs for the first time in almost a week (a severely sprained ankle on Monday had me living on the couch all week; no, it was not my twice-operated-on bad foot), I made a discovery in the upstairs bath.

I had hobbled in there to make use of the facilities, brush my teeth, and take my evening meds (including painkillers; bless modern medicine), and saw some dark hair on the floor.

Now, it could belong to Minou, and fallen out of the trashcan when Hubby emptied the bathroom trash after scooping the litterboxes.  Minou is our Holstein cat, and she's long-haired.  Theoretically, if a recent brushing had landed outside of the can, it could be hers.

So I picked it up.

Hair, yes.  Dark, yes.

Minou's?  No.

Not unless Minou had suddenly gone brown and curly.

And given the looseness of the curl, it was clearly not Medium Fry's.

Which left Large Fry...or Small Fry.  And whoever had done the snipping.  I knew that the owner of the hair wasn't necessarily the cutter of the hair.

I hobbled back to bed and sent Hubby a text, asking if he knew who belonged to the hank of hair (about two inches long and maybe an inch in width).

So that's what that was, he replied.

Marvy.

Well, the good news was that he'd given all three Fries baths earlier that night, and the missing hair wasn't readily apparent.  Which means nobody else would easily notice it if we didn't.

That's a bonus.

This morning, after I came downstairs, I fixed the Usual Suspects with a gimlet eye.  "Whose hair got cut?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," Hubby jumped in. "Who?"

Large Fry raised her hand just enough to admit guilt.

"Who cut you hair?" Hubby demanded.

"I did," she said, tears brimming.  Hubby was using his Don't Even Try To Lie To Me voice.

"Where did you get scissors?"

"From the windowsill."

"The windowsill?"

"The black ones!"  Blubbering commenced.

"With the curved blades?" I asked, jumping back into the interrogation.

Large Fry thought a minute, and then nodded.

I was momentarily impressed that she'd managed to cut off that much hair with those "scissors"--the claw trimmers I keep there for when I can catch Minou (notoriously difficult to catch) during her evening adore-me moments in the bathroom.  Minou doesn't often mosey downstairs, and it's easier to grab her in her favorite room: the upstairs bath.  So I keep a pair of trimmers there for that reason.

"Those are nail trimmers for the kitty!"

Hubby gave a stern lecture about how they do not use scissors on hair, the dire consequences of doing so in the future, and that kitty nail trimmers are not scissors.

I have to admit, I've been wondering when our first hair-cutting experience would happen....