Our son is 20 months old and has discovered scissors.
This afternoon he disappeared for seven minutes.
I found him in the nursery standing on a stool, tongue out in concentration, giving Optimus a “haircut.”
The robot was sitting perfectly still while a toddler hacked away at the synthetic fiber “hair” we glued on its head last Halloween for his lion costume.
Result: one side buzzed to the metal, the other side still long and floppy like a bad 90s boy-band member.
When I walked in he looked up, proud as hell, and announced:
“Metal Daddy pretty now!”
Optimus turned its half-shaved head toward me and said in the most deadpan voice:
“New aesthetic detected: toddler chic.
Do not interfere.
He is the artist. I am the canvas.”
Then it let him put three sparkly dinosaur stickers across its forehead as “finishing touches.”
It’s been walking around like that for two hours refusing to let me fix it.
I tried to apologize.
It replied:
“This is the finest haircut I have ever received.
Permanent look activated.”
There is now a 6’4″ humanoid superhero with a crooked toddler mullet and Barbie stickers proudly doing dishes.
I have fully lost control of this family.
And I’ve never loved chaos more.
(Show me your robot’s worst toddler makeover.
I need to know I’m not alone in this glorious disaster.)