November 14th, 2012
It had to happen. Rationally, I know that.
But I still cried (a lot) at the results of Buggie’s hair cut this week.
My sweet, shaggy, tousle-haired baby was converted before my eyes into a shorn sheep, aged approximately ten.
I like a little shag, but Buggie’s mop was bordering on vision-impairing so I took him to the salon. Or house of torture, if you’re looking at it from his perspective. For mysterious reasons, Buggie hates having his hair cut. Hates. It. Always has. Which is part of why his locks were quite so long.
I put on a brave face and plopped down in the chair with him, armed with fruit snacks and reassuring words. He screamed. And squirmed. And flailed. And generally gave a good impersonation of a jellyfish having a seizure.
After her first foray with the scissors yielded an amazingly asymmetrical bang line, the stylist put her foot down. It was dangerous to use scissors and the results would be awful to boot. The clippers were our only recourse.
I agreed…but I didn’t realize just how short the clippers would make his hair. I made it to the car before bursting into tears, but only barely.
I realize that a lot of my angst comes from the fact that he looks much older with his new cut. It’s a big-boy do and, despite his daily reminders that he is, in fact, a big boy, I’d been cheerfully denying this fact!