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MyGirl requested that I trim her hair.  

After lunch, she got the kitchen stool and brought it to the upstairs bathroom.  She donned our protective cape, secured it with our Donald Duck clip then sat on the stool.  "Ready," she called out.  I stood behind her and combed her hair;  I asked her how much she wanted me to cut.  She indicated how long she wanted her hair to be after the haircut.   (She wanted about two inches cut off.) 

I couldn't help but think of the many times I had stood behind one of my siblings, as they sat on the tall golden yellow stool in the kitchen back home, asking how many inches they wanted me to cut off from their long locks.   Mostly it was Eldest Sis sitting on the stool because she has always kept her hair nice and long.  She would normally tie it up and we wouldn't realise how long her hair was until she requested a haircut.   By then she would ask for three or four inches to be cut off but still have long hair when we were done.  Typically after I cut her hair, we would swap positions and she, in turn, would trim mine.  

London Eye would probably not have trusted me to do justice to her short hair.   I don't recall ever cutting her hair.  Sister Deer, Sunshine, Jersey Girl, Mindy and Z all had long hair while we were growing up.  They were regular occupants of that golden yellow stool in the kitchen or the ones giving me a haircut. 

Z was my favourite 'customer' because even in adulthood and sporting a bob cut, she would still be willing to have me cut her hair.  She would say, "Chop it off!  Chop it all off!"  And she'd be quite forgiving if the haircut was not salon quality and reassure me that it was just hair, it would surely grow back.

MyGirl isn't in the 'chop it all off' stage yet so I made sure to be careful about how long I cut away.  When I had cut off some of her hair, I mentioned to her that we should take a picture.  She was all for the photo op and this would probably be in her Instagram page by now with  #haircut (whatever hashtag means).