Monday, August 18, 2008

What To Do With a Mullet?

Imagine this, dear Saxontologists, it is Saturday morning and the Olympics are on television. You and your dad are just hanging out watching some female powerlifting (ooh lala those biceps!) when suddenly your mom appears...holding a pair of TRAUMA SCISSORS! That is right, she has a pair of those huge, nasty, serrated steel shears meant to cut through cloth, plastic and metal equally well. She holds them above my head and announces, "I can hardly see your eyes because your bangs are too long." Despite my protests, she persists in snipping my lovely long locks and five minutes later, I officially have a mullet. (In the interest of preserving any future self-respect, I have declined to provide photographic evidence of my humiliation.)
Luckily, Dad looked up from the Olympics on TV long enough to say, "He looks terrible." He then promptly whisked me away to the barber shop around the corner. And now, I look like...

In the end, I am quite happy with my new hairdo. My mom felt so guilty for defacing my good looks that this morning she let me play with her hair products. It was so fun smearing glue into my hair that when I was finished, I looked like a real British yob (London backslang for uncouth young thug)...just let them try to mess with me on the playground now!
What do you prefer? Hippie surfer dude or British yob?

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Part Fish. Part Boy Wonder. 100% Saxonator

As the Summer Olympics in China begin, I wonder if my dad is getting a little Olympics nostalgia. On the other hand, maybe my enthusiasm for water in Devon tipped him off. Either way, I win because last weekend, Dad took me to the Portchester Baths near our house. For those of you who might wonder why I wouldn't just take a 'bath' at home (I am not naming names but I will say that it isn't a coincidence that collectively you find yourselves located on the other side of the Atlantic.), 'bath' in this instance is a Victorian Britishism meaning indoor swimming pool.

As you can tell, I dig this kind of 'bath.' (Floating noodles are soooo much better than conventional bath toys.) Dad dunked me under the water and after the first few times with my mouth open, I realized it is much better mouth closed. The best part was micromanaging dad by pointing and directing him about where to go in the pool via primeval grunts.

(Did I mention that I am still a man of very few words? Why speak when you can grunt?)

Then again, why walk when you can float?