Shortly before Dylan's first birthday, M. and I made a major decision, a decision that to this day at least one family member calls "the disaster." We gave him a haircut. Bravely, M. was the chief stylist, and I was the chief distractor, providing toys and snacks to keep hands away from the clipping blades. I must say, I was impressed! M. did a really nice job: our kid's hair was even, neat, and no longer in his eyes. But, the sweet, sweet little curls at the nape of his neck were gone.
So I should have anticipated ambivalent feelings when finally on Saturday we took him to get his first professional cut.
I'd found a shop not far away that specializes in kids, and based on our last few home haircutting attempts, I thought it would be wise to find a stylist used to working with little squirmers. Indeed, we walked in and Dylan immediately gave an excited, "Whooooaaa!" and headed toward the train table. Then he noticed the red car and got even more delighted. It was easy to get him up and into the chair. The stylist worked quickly and within a few minutes, there was a little pile of soft, fine hair on the floor.
And then it was done. And though the experience was successful - it went quickly, Dylan was too interested in all that was going on to fidget much, and our goal of getting what had become his fairly long and sloppy hair tidied up - I am really sad. Major disaster.
Now he looks like a boy, ready for school. I miss my freespirited little toddler.