cutting hair and other forms of betrayal

Tuesday, August 20

Last week, we were sitting on our bed, talking with Everett snuggled between us, running our fingers over his hair. We had waited a long time for that head of hair and loved it dearly. Especially Everett, who had made it a habit of standing next to me as I got ready in the morning, combing through his tufts with his comb. And sometimes his dinosaurs. It was shaggy, and wavy and there was one section growing behind his right ear that could have easily been weaved into a luxurious french braid. We had talked about cutting it before, but talked ourselves out of it every time we saw its ability to honor everything that bedhead should be in the mornings. So anyway, we're sitting there. Should we cut it? No, look how perfect it is. I know, but should we? Does he look messy? He's not even two yet though. Let's just keep the baby hairs. But think of how adorable this 6-inch-long hair will be if we cut it. Let's just do it. Should we? I'll get the chair. 
It felt very ceremonial, very much a kumbaya life moment, and it was sort of exciting. Our first child's first haircut. Never to be repeated. Get out the plastic baggy, because here comes the dark blonde curl for the memory books. We brought his high chair into the bathroom and I grabbed one of his favorite games to distract him. Tyson pulled the clippers out and I grabbed the camera. The second that first little lock fell, Everett burst into tears. I wasn't expecting this reaction at all, since he had been happy just the second before. The first picture I have of him, sitting in his chair with a big devastated tear rolling down his cheek, is so sad I can still hardly even look at it. I picked him up and held him close so that Tyson could try again, but so help it all, this was parental mutiny and he was not having any of it. He turned his head this way and that, skillfully dodging and swerving, assisting his hair into a stunning bowl cut. Finally, he cried out, MULLET KILLER! and succumbed in tearful defeat into the nook of my shoulder, where he stayed for the remainder of the cut. We are bullies!!
But the next morning I woke up to discover that he had aged 18-years overnight, was the handsomest devil I'd ever seen, and that I certainly should have done this months ago. He was also quite pleased to find that after all of it, he still had a good bit of hair left and it was still very brush-able with combs and dinosaurs alike.

No Response to "cutting hair and other forms of betrayal"

the daybook All rights reserved © Blog Milk Design - Powered by Blogger