I am a great admirer of those brave souls who choose to cut their children's hair themselves. While many women think that it's a big waste of time and money to take their child to the salon for a trim, I am not one of them. This is because I like my son's ears firmly attached to his head. The only way to keep him still without forcibly restraining him is to sign the ABCs over and over again in front of his nose, and attempting to sign with my left hand while using scissors with my right hand sounds like a really, really bad idea to me.
So we went to a stylist.
Connor was really very, very good for her-- he held perfectly still so long as I was signing and singing the ABCs. My eighteen renditions of the song in various rhythms and styles probably clashed a little bit with the pop music emanating from the overhead speakers, but at least my child emerged with his ears intact.
Haircuts always have the effect of making Connor look much, much older-- it's like little pieces of his babyhood are swept away among the clippings on the floor. It makes me a bit sad. I saved a lock of his hair to tie with a ribbon and tuck in this week's care package. Hopefully there's a tiny sliver of youth in there too-- I'm sure my husband could use a bit of innocence where he is now.
I've heard there's not a lot of it to go around over there.