It’s a right of passage isn’t it? The obligatory terrible haircut. At some point in a child’s life it happens. Christ, I think my whole childhood was spent with the obligatory terrible haircut, so it’s only fair my child gets to experience the joys of looking like a twit. Actually ‘The Twits’ isn’t a bad shout when it comes to describing the massacre that has occurred on my Son’s heavenly curly crown.
Alas his curls are somewhere floating about in my Mother’s back garden. Hacked from his head. After a few days in her company, of her making annoying comments of ‘oh the poor baby has hair in his eyes’ and ‘he can’t see’ (even though she was the one who refused to let me cut his much lengthier locks before he turned one due to superstitions) and her ignoring the fact I had repeatedly told her he was going to the barbers next week, she decided to just twist my arm and get her own way. The chance to ‘trim’ his hair.
After telling me how great she was with a pair of scissors and showing her skills on the dogs fur the day before…
…I agreed as it obviously gave her some sort of weird pleasure to wield the scissors and cut hair from any kind of animal. My Son included. Here was her chance to be the doting Grandmother.
After chasing my Son around the garden and hacking at what she could manage to grasp between her fingers, Little London proudly showed off the results of his new stylish haircut.
Woops did I say stylish? I meant to say monstrosity. His fringe is so short in places and long in others.
I think if I dressed him in some dresses for a while I could get away with declaring he’d had a fashionable pixie cut. No such luck. Good thing it grows quickly!
Lesson learnt 😉