I thought I'd pretty much covered the bases when I had that serious discussion with him about keeping those impossibly tiny nuts and bolts out of his mouth. (That didn't work either, but it's what I call a "self-correcting problem." )

The pride I felt that my 5-year-old son knew how to use an Allen wrench clearly clouded my judgment.

I'm usually pretty good at anticipating disaster. I pack a barf bucket every time we go on vacation, and put the plumber on speed-dial. But pride is one of the seven deadly sins, you know. The gods apparently decided to take me down a peg.

In the span of time it takes for an (otherwise perfectly competent) supervising adult to wrench a miniature bolt from a covetous cat, the inevitable happened. Brain surgery was attempted, with less than stellar results.

Naturally, the hair caught in the motor wasn't his. It was his sister's. And lest you think this is the first hair mishap in the family, I refer you to Exhibits 1 and 2: my consecutive Christmas Card pictures for 1998 and 1999. Note the left half of Abby's head, which in 1998 was nicely concealed by HAIR.

You see, five-year-old logic is an amazing and pliable thing. It ebbs and flows in approximate proportion to the amount of cookies that used to be in the pantry 10 minutes ago, and how long Mom talks on the phone. So I'm pretty sure that AT THE TIME, cutting his sister's hair off seemed like a good idea. (Really. I thought this was why we had a cat.)

His aesthetic sensibilities apparently kicked in a little late, but soon enough conveyed the horror of what he'd done. I guess it was at that point that it seemed like a good idea to hide the wad of liberated follicles under a throw pillow, and hide in the bathroom. (Well, if you're going to hide somewhere, you have to admit that's a very practical place.)

His father was out of town at the time. A lucky break for me - as it bought me some time. Unfortunately, it didn't buy me the 18 months needed for said hair to grow back. Or enough time to get an emergency appointment with my ruefully popular hairdresser. Not that it would have done much good.

So after much experimenting with hats and creative comb-overs, I opted for the direct approach. I gave her a daisy, and sent her galloping to the gate, as Daddy emerged from his flight. It seemed the safest route, what with all those people milling around.

The look on his face was a pretty good indicator that I'd better stock up on some good prescription sedatives for her wedding day. I swear, I thought he's shave MY head right then and there.

After a torturous 18 months of explaining to elderly relatives and child-free strangers why my daughter was half-sheared (people with kids never even bother to ask) and at long last back to a respectable bob, the inevitable happened.

Now she's now sporting an erector set motor as a hair accessory.

Seriously, I can't get it out. And you're out of your mind if you think I'm going for the scissors. Luckily it wound itself up right close to the skull, so there's none of that pesky flopping about. It almost looks nice, topped with a scrunchie.

One of her classmate's mothers was kind enough to remind me that I ought to make sure the batteries had been removed. "Makes it lighter, too!" Her daughter has a great hat collection.

I suppose that some day this will all seem worth it - when my kids get jobs and I can start blackmailing them for the negatives. Until then, I may have to take more preventative measures. Such as getting another cat.