Ryan Gosling is not only a hero, what with his shopping-bag wielding, street-fight peacemaking abilities, but he can also do THE LIFT while sporting some lovely abs and can use the schvantz better than any yiddishe zaydie that I know. In other words, he is kind of, sort of perfect, even with the stint on Breaker High, because, as we all know, you gotta start somewhere, and I’m okay with him starting in Hawaiian shirts and a middle part. All of this is to say, though, that Crazy, Stupid, Love was crazy stupid enjoyable. Even on a deeper level, abs aside. It was this lovely little story about love and marriage and what happens to that love after many, many years of marriage. Obviously, my husband isn’t sporting New Balance sneakers and the wrong-size suit, but you know, life as Case de Martell is not always perfect.

Except, that, it kind of sort of is almost exactly all of time. The beginning years of our marriage enjoyed such fun times as not having any money and having three babies in 4.5 years. We argued about VISA bills, and they were presented to me in such dad-like fashion, with yellow highlighter markings through all of my frivolous expenses. I threw many “YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!”s his way. And we had a really awesome and exciting way of fighting that included the stink eye and the silent treatment. But somewhere along the way, we stopped doing that. We started stressing less about money, we started sleeping more. We stopped arguing and ignoring, and there hasn’t been a stink eye from anyone other than our preteen daughter in ages. We have hit this great place. I go to sleep happy at night, I wake up happy in the morning. I absolutely love my life.

Until I get onto to Twitter and see that my lovely husband of 13 years has decided to use Twitter to tell me that he has turned my 8-year-old son into Lloyd Christmas.

The resemblance is uncanny, really. And I can’t help but wonder what kind of hairdressers he is visiting in New Brunswick. Because seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

My son has this amazing mop of fabulous hair. It’s messy, it’s long, it’s all over the place. But if you have ever met my son, that is the essence of him. He’s messy and all over the place. We made this exact mistake last October, and I could barely look at this boy who they tried to convince me was my son. I didn’t even recognize him.

Go ahead and get all high and mighty.

YES. It’s just hair. Yes. It will grow back.

Yes. It’s not like he shaved it completely off.

Yes, Kristin, it most definitely could be worse. (Related: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!)(Also related: I really need that.)

Yes, there ARE people who are worse off.

Yes, yes yes yes. All of your points are valid, of course.

It still doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be upset or angry or disappointed that my husband of thirteen years should have known better. It does, however, make me happy to know that while other couples have actual, real problems, my husband and I fight about haircuts. I’m guessing it’s probably a good sign for our future; for what we’ll argue about when we are older and grayer and droopier and wrinklier and we spending out old age sitting on our white porch. Haircuts.

SIGH.

Double sigh.

I had better start teaching him how to break up street fights and how to do THE LIFT. And maybe one day the ladies will forgive him for the Lloyd Christmas haircut the same way we forgive Ryan Gosling for Breaker High.