Hair today ... still grow'n tomorrow
It was going to be a busy day: dance lessons, a date with Santa, a holiday craft workshop AND a playdate.
To fit one more thing in between the time slots, we'd need Vaseline and a shoehorn.
Jed made breakfast for the kids and coffee for me -- as is his usual morning routine when he doesn't have to rocket out the door before the crack of dawn -- and then turned to me and suggested we add a trip to the barbershop to our itinerary.
HIM: Hey? I have to get my hair cut. Why don't we stop by Scotty's on our way out of town. I'll take Silas, it can be a two-fer."
ME: *Bugged-eyed Silence.*
HIM: I just pissed in your Christmas stocking, didn't I?
ME: Yup! Sounds about right.
Jed has it in his head that I'm going to be one of THOSE mothers who let their boys hair grown down to their feet, tempting all sorts of school yard bullies (not to mention the high-pitched praise of the stranger-ladies wanting to know the age of our precious little girl.)
He's not entirely wrong.
At 17 months (and discounting each and every day until the very hour of his 18th month milestone ) I'm just not ready to excise Silas' baby-like locks. In my mind to do so would give up the baby and replace him with a real boy.
I've made all kinds of bargains with myself.
When the hair is in his eyes. ...
When it just looks too scraggly ...
When it stands on end ...
(Ok ... that last one has happened on numerous occasions, but a little No More Tears and some fingers combing through the Alfalfa-like protrusions normally does the trick).
I know it's not going to last forever. He doesn't have that beautiful, rock-star thick hair with curling tendrils that inspired legions of groupies. His hair is like mine; fine and thin with only a slight humidity-styled wave. His tresses are more like some buffoon of a billionaire.
I'm just not ready to see my baby turn into a boy in the course of a haircut. Just not yet.
ME: Why can't we wait until he's two?
HIM: "Well, O.K. But lets let him just see me get mine cut. Then he can see it doesn't hurt."
I agreed and we moved our clownshow from the warmth of the house to the cold of the street, and finally the brief stillness as we climbed the steep stairs of the second-floor barbershop.
Silas was the only one who was silent as we took over the waiting room, and waited our turn. Even the television blared sports scores over the non-stop chatter of men, scissors and suggestions.
When it was Jed's turn, Silas wasn't having any of it.
I knew he'd be on my side. He is, after all, my son.