There Comes A Time

There comes a time.

There comes a time in every little boy's life.

There comes a time in every little boy's life that his mother mutters, "What have I done?"

There's comes a time in every little boy's life. Right? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

In the summer, we keep The Little Buddy's hair pretty short. He likes it that way--seriously, he asks for hair cuts--because he doesn't particularly like us combing through his thick, curly, hair. I use ethnic hair products that make it easier but he still just isn't a fan. He hates to sit still and he has better things to do than primp. He was in need of a haircut so I got out our clippers and I cut it.

(Before. Hamming it up for the camera.)

(After. Swimming in the pool.)

He likes it. When I finished his hair, I held him up to a mirror. He rubbed his head. "Mah hayah. I yike it!" (My hair. I like it.) He's obviously not the one this story is about.

We also decided to give The Rock Star a buzz so that, when we go camping in two weeks, he can just roll out of his bed sleeping bag and go about the day. The Rock Star had a cute, often spiked in the front, hair cut.

For the life of me I can't find a really good example of that spikage but there he is with hair. Anyway. Which is something. Something he used to have. Oh what have I done to my child?

A week ago I buzzed The Rock Star's head as well. It was shorter but it didn't look drastically different. In fact, it was such an unimpressive buzz that he still woke up with bed head. He still jumped out of bed and required a little water sprayed on it to make it go where his mother wanted it.

Last night we went to Troy's softball game. There were toads there. More on them later. Oh will there ever be more on them later. Because, well, I'm the proud new, temporary, owner of two toads who eat crickets with wild abandon and with lightning speed. We've explained to Garrett that in a couple of weeks they will become "yard pets" and if they choose to actually stay in the yard, all the better. I digress. The point is the hair. Don't mind the strange look he's making. Just mind the hair. Decent buzz cut. Kid looks alright.
But again with the bed head thing. It was totally defeating the purpose. That purpose was that he could roll out of his sleeping bag and go about his day. No water required. No having to jump into Lake Tahoe or the Oregon coast to properly wet down his mind-of-its-own hair.

So this morning I told him we needed to go one shorter. And, here is the thing. I'm still pretty convinced that we only went one shorter.

Straight down the middle. That's what I did. And then I audibly gasped. "What have I done?" I considered walking away from the project and leaving him with a reverse mohawk. But I didn't. I closed my eyes, dug deep, and continued to practically shave my baby, my firstborn, my whole heart, bald.

Please understand. The lighting in the pictures makes it look even worse. But only a little worse. It really is, just about, as bad as it looks. Of course, I didn't tell him that. I told him it looked great. I told him I'd rub his head for the next two weeks until it doesn't feel spiky anymore. (I've always been a sucker for a buzzed head--just ask my brother.) I told him to go surprise his daddy. Then I watched his daddy's face. "Wow Buddy! You got your hair cut!" Then he looked at me with enormous eyes and deep concern.

Later, his friend came to the door. "You got a haircut!" he exclaimed.

Garrett followed with a big grin and a sweet, "Yep!" Oh, Son. I'm glad I was able to veil my horrid mistake and not make you feel self conscious. When you're old enough to understand the catastrophe, I grant you permission to chastise me for this event.

Because there isn't going to be any bed head tomorrow. Of that, I am sure.

I just can't believe I did this.

It's all my fault.



There comes a time.

There comes a time in every little boy's life.

Right?