Nearly six months after Nate’s first haircut, some people (Nate’s dad) claimed he needed another one. Something about strangers commenting on our “adorable little girl” and the unruliness of our boy’s wiry yet flyaway towhead made M believe it was time to visit SuperCuts.
“High and tight,” I believe, are the words M used for how a little boy’s hair should look.
“Like a surfer living in the back of his friend’s VW” is how Nate’s hair actually looked.
Let me explain…Nate is my baby.
The last one, after a string of soft-headed newborns and stumbling toddlers, to need rocking before sleep and to need cuddling upon waking. Nate would rather be held than walk. Because he is my baby, holding is a good thing.
Sorry. Back to his hair and how he looks like a homeless Norwegian (because of the blonde hair…not because he smells like luftfish.)
Finally, in a moment of weakness when I was trying to purge a few Barbies that the girls were grasping with white knuckles, M convinced me. I believe his argument was that less of Nate’s hair meant less overall stuff in our house.
So, off they went, with Nate bearing a note for any hairdresser laying scissors on his blonde curls.
Here’s my boy’s back as he headed off for his shearing. Of course the note was lost in the chaos of M single-handedly wrangling four kids getting their haircuts, so the hairdressers never knew Nate had a mommy who still needed a baby.
An hour later, my baby bounded into the house with far less hair than he had before. He turned and modeled his new high and tight hairstyle.
He looked about fifteen years old.
But then, praise God, that big boy ran right into my arms and said, “Mommy! Hoooollllllld me!’
And, of course, I did.
