18 November 2011

Of Traumatizing my Son

After two haircuts in his young life, my young 17-month-old has already been shaggy beyond necessity for a couple of months now - his hair has the growing curse of his mother's.  Not that I have ever considered it a curse on my own head - but as the one whose responsibility it is to keep up with this mop of hair on a little boy upon whom there are certain societal standards for length, my perspective has changed.

For his previous two encounters with scissors, he has had the wonderful privilege of having his hairs clipped by a fantastic friend of mine.  She does a glorious job and as long as there are Cheerios or an entertaining light show (provided by her son and a laser pointer) nearby, he has done fairly well.  Unfortunately (well, for me, not for her - I know she loves it most days), this same friend has recently entered the realm of working motherhood and, having tragically bad timing in a previous hair-cutting request, I haven't been able to broach the topic since.  Her life is hectic enough without the worries of my son's hair issues.

Which leaves me with a Jonas-brother look-alike and no desire to pay to fix it (I rarely even do that for my own curly locks).

So, what's a mom to do?

Well, apparently, the answer is NOT to assume that breakfast and Qubo are enough to distract him from noticing the buzzing sound of the clippers approaching his head.  Be warned, if this technique is attempted, you may find yourself with a little boy bending as far over his booster-seat tray as physically possible, sobbing with enough intensity to leave snot dripping into Raisin Bran.  And, apparently, once sufficiently traumatized by the clippers, scissors are no longer acceptable either.  And once an appropriate hack-job has been accomplished, even the feel of his mother's fingers running through his hair may be enough to leave him in weeping fits.

Not that I've tried it or anything.

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