For whatever reason, Abby has always had an affinity for scissors. Why? I may never know. Does it worry me? Sometimes. Has she hurt herself? Thankfully, no. Has she hurt anyone else? Thankfully, no...at least I don't think so. (Ah, this whole moment of reflection thing can really drive you crazy, right?) Am I to the point where I may remove (or lock up) all scissors in my house? YES.
When Abby was younger, she performed surgery on her favorite stuffed animal. Tabby the Cat lost his whiskers and had a nasty incision on his stomach. (Poor guy couldn't have had laparoscopy?) Somehow, this was done with safety scissors. And no, I don't really want to know how. Not even now. Daddy to the rescue and Tabby was stitched up. (The whiskers couldn't be saved.) We tried to impress upon Abby that we don't play with scissors and we don't cut things without permission. The scissors went on vacation too.
There have been a handful of other scissor run-ins, but nothing terribly alarming. Until recently. The day before Abby went away to camp, I was cleaning up the kids' bathroom and found a long clump of hair under the bathroom sink. I knew it was Abby's hair, but I couldn't tell how long it had been there. (Is there really a need to go into why I couldn't tell how long? No, there isn't.) I asked Abby about the hair. She had an immediate reply without any hint of concern (or fear). "That's from when I cut my hair a couple of years ago and you got mad at me." My internal dialogue: Um, well, yes, I remember when your hair was cut, but it was cut by a mean girl at school and the teacher was a witness. And, uh, you're hair wasn't this color two years ago. Oh, by the way, I know you're lying to me but I just can't prove it and I don't want to get into a battle with you right now. My response? "I don't think so." I simply trashed the hair and walked away.
The next morning as we finished packing her bag for camp, Abby tucked her hair behind her ear. BUSTED! That small section of hair that falls just in front of your ear wasn't there. Nope. It had been cut. Badly. I bit my tongue, trying to come up with a tempered gotcha. Only then, she turned slightly and ran her fingers through her hair. BUSTED AGAIN! There was obviously a section of hair that was shorter than the rest of her hair along the back. I called her out. What does she do? Acts as if we've already had this conversation, saying she told me yesterday she cut her hair. What the what? No, child of mine, we did not. You, my dear, will be shaved bald if you cut your hair again without permission. Sound too drastic? Probably.
Since I dashed Abby's cosmetology dreams, she moved on to the next best thing - fashion design (with scissors). Getting ready for day camp, she came downstairs in a "new" shirt. A nice shirt that was normally worn to church and other dressy or semi-dressy occasions. Only, the shirt was no longer long enough to cover her mid-section. Nope. It now seemed reminiscent of an 80's midriff. It was obvious that it took a lot of effort with the scissors she used because the cut wasn't clean. Thankfully, she was wearing a cami underneath. When I inquired about the shirt, she said that was how it had always been. Again, I held my tongue. When Daddy came downstairs, he immediately noticed the fashionista-in-training. She was holding her own, trying to convince him that the shirt was no different than the last time she wore it. At this point, I kindly told her, "Don't say a word. You have from now until we leave for camp and work to find the rest of that shirt and bring it to me. If you don't, you will live your life knowing that one day, Dad or I will find the rest of the shirt. And, when we do, you will be punished. A lot." Not thirty seconds later, I was holding the rest of the shirt. Dear girl, why must you do this? She wanted a new shirt and didn't think we buy her one. Child, school starts in less than 6 weeks. Couldn't it have waited until we went back-to-school shopping? Apparently not.
At this point, I think we'll have to enforce a no scissors lifestyle for a while. The problem is the enforcement. It isn't like I can just gather all the scissors in the house and lock them away. We have scissors in the kitchen and I can't imagine having my hands on raw meat and yelling for Mike to grab the key and fetch me the scissors from the safe. *Sigh* Maybe I could replace all of the scissors with books or cleaning cloths. But, I don't think she'd take the hint.