The first hair cut

It is the small landmarks that most take me by surprise!  Wee man (rising 2) has been a mass of blond baby curls which I loved and had let grow almost to his shoulders.  Everyone comments on his near-white halo, mainly because it is regularly a birds nest since the curls are hidden under an unbrushed matted mass.  You learn to pick your battles carefully and a screaming tantrum before breakfast simply to brush his hair is not, in my view, worth it (excluding days with grandparents or other official dignitaries).  I had attempted a trim in the kitchen high-chair thinking ‘how hard can it be’.  After a small fortune spent at Tony & Guy to fix my mistaken thinking I resigned myself to always seeking professional assistance and so the next trim took place in a special ‘Junior Barbers’ repleat with small chair with steering reel set 6″ back from a DVD of Thomas the Tank Engine.  It was only a little tidy up around the edges and though generally unimpressed with the fussing around his head Wee Man was too engrossed in Thomas and friends to cause us trouble.

However, it had got to the point where something had to be done so two days ago off we went to Junior Barbers for another epidsode of the fat controller.  However, one look at the chair and Wee Man was attempted to climb to the top of my shoulders.  No enticement would bring him down into the chair or interest him in the cartoon or other toys helpfully scattered infront of the mirror.  So, we gowned up mummy, gowned up Wee Man and lurching from bribery through to corruption convinced him to sit on my lap and get as close to the DVD as he wanted.

The hairdresser sensibly advised that we just ‘go for it’ so that the next visit could be put off as long as possible.  Slowly inches of blond halo fell to the ground (inches more got rubbed into mummy’s jumper and trousers but nothing several days of washing and housework won’t sort out.)  He came out looking like a small boy – a handsome small boy assured the hairdresser – and as he calmed to strains of raisins and cake (a word he mastered surprisingly early on) my sense of panic rose.  To me, he looked like a recovering cancer patient.  Hubby nearly freaked having been warned of the impending hair cut that morning he threw a comment over his shoulder as he ran out of the door along the lines of ‘not too much’ (how am I meant to catch every mumble through toast whilst running in the opposite direction?)

However, no more fears of battling the brush before breakfast.  And no more photos until he looks less like a convict.  My wee man!