A while ago I wrote about Dylan’s hobo hair and how I was going to fast track a haircut to get the situation under control. Well uhm...that didn’t happen. Instead, I filed the scissor date away in the “follow up” corner of my mind where all the other to-do’s go to die. At first I convinced myself I was “too busy” to make time for slashing those precious baby locks, but as the comments about his hair’s length continued to pour in from family/friends/strangers, I realized four months had passed.
Last Friday, Dylan made a friend at the park. The two boys were side by side, playing/avoiding each other when suddenly Dylan’s small fry companion became entranced with his hair and began petting Dylan's head. I laughed while Dylan ran away from baby hands and I realized I have a problem: I’m somewhat pleased with the side show that is Dylan’s mane. Though I fantasize about the cool, polished, clean-cut style he could have if I bucked up, stopped resisting change, and cut the dang hair- but I can’t do it... I love crazy head.
Slashing off Dizbaby curls prompts a panic attack, as I envision cute little strands of heaven laying on the ground post scissor, only to be swept up and thrown away like common trash. (Overdramatic much?) Since when is a haircut such an emotionally loaded experience? I mean, it’s merely a trim and yet I treat the wild, unruly, ever growing mop as if Dylan is Samson and all his powers will be lost once we leave the salon. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands!
So NO! There will be no trimmy-trims in the immediate future. There will be luscious hobo locks flowing freely in the wind atop my 1 year old’s head. Because quite frankly, he has a lifetime of haircuts ahead of him and I’m in no rush to let my wittle baby grow up. Keep ‘em young and the hair long! …Cause mommy can’t let go.