D will kill me for telling this story...

E was outside playing with his friend Squeaks (not his real name, but I like to preserve some semblance of anonymity on this blog, and the kid has a high squeaky/raspy voice, so that's how he shall be dubbed from now on) earlier today when suddenly he came storming inside, slammed the front door, and stomped up the stairs to his bedroom muttering under his breath.  Being a mother, and therefore easily quailed by such tactics, I tentatively called "E?" but received no answer.

When he had cooled down enough to grace the downstairs mortals with his presence again, I asked him if he'd had a disagreement with Squeaks. "Well, yes," he replied, grumpy again, "I got mad at him because I told him that I'd gotten a new haircut today and he didn't even say 'nice haircut'!"

Suffice it to say that I had to try very hard not to laugh.

And D didn't think it was that funny.  Since he's been on the other end of that particular conversation once or twice.