The anti-climax of the first haircut

haircut

We are a hairy family. I wish there were a more elegant way of saying it, but there isn’t. We are not Teen Wolf hairy, people don’t have the urge to scratch behind our ears, but in all the generations I have met there hasn’t been a baldy amongst them.

My son has inherited this trait. He was born with a fine head of hair, he lost that and has now grown back a flocculent masterpiece that even Fabio would be envious of. This is the sort of hair that if styled right could get a person elected President.

Unfortunately, I just don’t have the time in my life for styling a 10-month-old baby’s hair. I haven’t time to style my own, and I certainly don’t have time to style his. I see other little boys in the playground with their long pre-Raphaelite golden curls trailing down their shoulders, and think I think ‘if only their Mammy had a little girl, there would be no need for that nonsense’.

I am a short-back-and-sides sort of lady (despite falling for a long-haired rocker, but that is a story for another day) so as soon as my son’s hair started to tuft over the top of his ears, I got out the hair scissors and ‘feathered’ it so that it sat behind his ears. However, now that his fringe is in his eyes and curls are slipping down the nape of his neck behind his shirt collar, it’s time to call in the professionals.

At 10 months very few hairdressers would consider cutting his hair because at that age his skin is very thin, he moves at unpredictable angles unexpectedly and is fascinated by anything that touches his head and wants to look at it. This makes for a very difficult client. However, I eventually tracked down a lovey hairdresser with two young sons of her own who agreed to give it a go.

I sat in the hairdressers’ chair, my son on my knee; I amused him and she chopped away. That was it. After months of searching, enquiring and asking she was done in less than 5 minutes with no drama. If we were in a reality TV series this event would be edited out. The result wasn’t breath-taking, it was simply shorter. He did not lose the strength of Samson or the top of his ear, just the ends of his hair. We dusted him off and went home, with an arrangement to come back to her in a few months’ time.

An anti-climax or talented, experienced hairdresser? Either way my son no longer looks the unkempt lead singer of a Brit Pop band, so the tale ends quietly and happily.

This post originally appeared on HerFamily.ie

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