Entries Tagged 'Haircuts' ↓

My six year old does not want his hair cut. No biggee, right? Well, here’s the kicker: we will be attending his aunt’s wedding in about a week’s time. And my child has been given the honorable job of ring bearer. He’s been measured for his tux and is expected to be there, cleaned up, looking dashingly camera ready and all set to bear some rings.

And while longer hair is kind of cool right now, and might clean up ok with a little gel and a comb, my wonderful 6 year old actually has a very, er, particular mop of hair. With this crazy, stick straight, rooster crowish nest growing straight up from the back of his head. Which won’t lay down no matter how much you wash it, slick it, comb it or gel it.

And he doesn’t want it cut. I think his exact words were “I like it like that mommy.”

Um. Ok.

There is no doubt about it, it’s his dad’s hair. I swear I am not doing the whole “blame your spouse for which ever gene pisses you off” kind of thing either. It’s a fact. His dad will be the first to fess up to this mess. This uber thick, mind of it’s own, never lays down mess of hair. Which is why my husband keeps his hair almost army cut short. Which is why we’ve always cut my 6 year old’s hair just like his father’s.

I suppose it’s a natural development. I suppose we should have seen it coming. I suppose we shouldn’t have expected that daddy’s cut would be cool forever. Still. That hair …and now he doesn’t want it cut.

So, being a “go with the flow” kind of mom (stop laughing), I have left it for now. Kids should have a say about how they look.

Huh. Well, you should have seen the look on my husband’s face when I agreed to letting it grow for now. Long hair on his kid? Long hair on his kid with THAT kind of hair? My poor spouse is minutes away from grabbing the clippers and shearing him like a sheep.

See, now, I think we can reach a compromise. Eventually. I think we might be able to coerce him into a cut before the wedding. Maybe. With a little mommy sweetness and a whole lot of… bribing… I think we can get it cut.

But here’s the thing. As it grows out, I have come to realize that… actually? He’s is rocking one of the coolest hair looks out there right now.

(*cough* Um. I use the word “cool” loosely. I’m not a particular fan of this cut but it remains popular never the less.)

My sweet, baseball loving, soon to be ring bearing, six year old? Yeah, well it turns out he is currently rocking the Kate Gosselin “do”. For sure.

Tell me I’m wrong…

Holy crap. Where are those sheers.

There is always something with these kids of ours. We parents are left stumped, with question marks, exclamation points and other choice symbols dancing over our heads. Right now my two year old is once again baffling me and I am left shaking my head.

When my two year old was an infant, he always reached up for my hair when he breast fed. It was quite sweet… until he yanked. But my hair was his “go to” when he needed comfort. And this habit has long carried over well past those early breast feeding months. If he needs comfort or is particularly tired, up his hand creeps and he finds himself a handful of my hair. He spins it in his fingers and yes, sometimes he gives it a tug or two.

And if I am not nearby and he is tired, he plays with his own hair: twirling, spinning, running his little boy fingers through it all.

However. Sometimes (and this has happened a handful of times, especially when his hair is too long), I have found him fresh from his nap with… a bald spot. I guess he twirled to much. His shirt is sprinkled with hair. And he and his little bald patch smile up at me.

What the….?

Doesn’t that hurt!? Apparently not as much as it comforts.

When we find these patches (maybe once or twice a year), my husband and I are annoyed. Ugh. Now what? Well, after receiving some advice from Dr. Google, I’ve heard that cutting his hair short should break him of the habit. And so that’s what we do.

But that, of course, makes the bald patches clear and visible to all. A big pink spot shining on for all the world to see.

“Did you guys miss while cutting his hair? Did he get a hold of the clippers?”

I WANT to say “It was something like that.” or “YES!” But I don’t because I am too damn honest. I usually roll my eyes and say “Its a long story.” Because if I DO explain the whole deal, I get an uncomfortable silence. You know other parents are thinking its odd, compulsive behavior. It clearly reflects some sort of anxiety within, right? Or maybe they think its due to MY odd, compulsive, anxiety within and my parenting license really should be reconsidered, I mean reeeally.

Ok, well, this is what I think they are thinking…

(See? I am anxious and compulsive!)

But still. You can tell they are weirded out. They stare and scramble to say something to normalize it. So I rush on about it being “just a comfort thing” and that he is “going to grow out of it”.

You know what else? I make him wear a hat too.

Because I am embarrassed. Which I feel badly about. I mean, this is no big deal, right? But irregardless whether I actually AM, I don’t want anyone judging or thinking I am some weird parent. Like I am driving my kid to pull handfuls of his hair out in some whimpering, nightmarish slumber, finally safe from his mothers haranguing. Or that he will grow up with bald patches, running around naked from the waist down, with a loony smile plastered on his face, throwing down earth shattering temper tantrums on a dime.

(Which is exactly what he does RIGHT NOW.)

I know am being reeeeally dramatic. This is NO BIG DEAL, is it? This is not even the same ballpark as hearing loss or train smashes is it?

Still. I stress.

(And besides. I don’t think I’d be a very good blogger if I didn’t stress like I do. It’s kind of my shtick.)

Enough already. There is nothing to be ashamed about. So I am posting about his bald patch here. Coming out of the closet about my child’s random, self hair mutilation… (which I swear he is totally going to grow out of).

Plus, he is pretty damn cute with a bald patch. Dontcha think?

I love my boy so. Hair should be no pre-requisite for any son of mine.

My youngest little guy, C., absolutely detests having his hair cut. There is no act more heinous or insulting to my little boy than taking a pair of scissors to that thatch of baby blonde. And I am honestly at a loss. The set up is as good as it gets. We put on his favorite Wiggles movie (yup, I know all the words). We offer animal crackers. He gets to sit in Daddy’s lap. The scissors don’t even touch him, there is nothing that could possibly hurt him. And yet, cutting C.’s hair is like trying to wrestle a feral cat. He screams, head-buts, swings hay-makers, and kicks with all of his might. Even my 6 ft. 4, 215 lb husband can only barely contain him. And, in the guilt ridden tradition of mothers worldwide, I feel horrible. Are we ruining him for life? Will his nightmares be filled with his mother towering over him, cackling evilly, as she leans in with razor-sharp knife like scissors looking for his precious little ear to snip? Will he refuse haircuts entirely when we can no longer contain him? Will he be borrowing my hair elastics and driving his perpetually “wiffle cut” father crazy with his long flowing locks? Not because he is making a statement but because he has been so horribly ruined by us at the mere age of two? Oh the shame. Can you believe I actually had to sit on him and pin his arms with my knees to get his bangs cut straight and just “right”? For what? For my reputation as a good mother who looks after her children and keeps them clean and manicured. For my mother in law who will be seeing her boys in about a week. I want everyone proud of my boys and saying how nice they look. That’s the truth of it. His terror, screams and desperate struggles are simply trumped by my controlling tendancies to maintain my so-called valuable “rep” as a mom. Great. Terrific. Hand over the “mommy of the year” award. I am failing at this parenting thing one haircut at a time.

So, once the haircut was over, I took my sniffling sweet boy out on our porch to calm him down. All he had on was a diaper but he was wearing his fair share of boogers and chunks of cut hair regardless. Whimpering and red eyed, he seemed utterly heart-broken. How could I do this to him? What could I offer him to make up for traumatizing his childhood? WHAT was enough in that moment.?

“Hey C., you wanna popsicle for being such a good boy?”

“YeaaAAAYYYY!!!!” (His “yeah” and “yay” are always mixed together, but that’s C. He truly celebrates whatever he affirms with a “yes” in his life.)

And then he smiled and hugged me and ate his purple popsicle. I think I might even be forgiven. I think he isn’t so bad off after all. I think his dreams might remain pure and filled only with Mickey Mouse and Captain Feathersword. I think all might be well again in his universe. I think.