The second those first little curls fell into Eddie’s lap, there it was. James spun around in that chair clinging to his daddy and just like that my little baby looked like, well—a little boy.
I’m not sure when it happened but somewhere between Easter and Labor Day our James began to resemble Billy Ray Cyrus. Yes, “Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart”, business in the front, party in the back Billy Ray—but a way cuter version.
It was time to make THE CUT, I knew it was time, Eddie knew it was time, EVERYBODY knew it was time. All I had to do was say the word, but I couldn’t do it.
My mom tells a story of me as a little girl—maybe 2 or 3. At that time, Dorothy Hamill was one of the world’s top figure skaters. Her hair style was also popular. It was called “the wedge” and my mom apparently wanted her little one to sport the same look as the world famous figure skater. So, when we arrived at the hair salon, my mom told the hair dresser that she wanted “the wedge.” That was it, no description of what her version of “the wedge” was, no pictures, not even a mention of Dorothy Hamill. Every woman out there shoul know that was NOT a good idea. She never says much about the haircut process itself—just the uncontrollable crying she had afterward. It was awful—my Grandma describes my new do as, “an adult head on a 3-year-old body.” And her little girl was going to have to endure this unfortunate new look until it grew long enough to fix. For it to be such a horrific look, mom reassures me that I wasn’t bothered in the least. I was 3, I didn’t care what my hair looked like, but in my mom’s eyes she had ruined my hair...and my life. I didn’t want to repeat this regrettable incident with my own child so I avoided the conversion totally.
I finally gave in a couple of weeks ago. I noticed James leaning his head over to the right and rubbing his ear back and forth on his shoulder. James’ hair had gotten so long that it was tickling his neck. I gave Eddie the okay to make an appointment.
Thursday evening we all piled in the car and off we went. I held my breath the entire time—sharp objects near your child’s head can do that to a mom I guess. I had no idea what to expect. Would James be traumatized? Would he squirm at just the right moment and cause the stylist to cut off way more than she meant too? Different scenarios and how I would react played out in my mind the whole way there. Funny enough they all ended up with me saying to Eddie, “I told you so!”
At the end of the day, I still wasn’t sure why I protested so much in the beginning. Maybe because it was just one more thing reiterating that my little baby will soon be…I guess is… a little boy. The hair cut wasn’t really the evolutionary experience I thought I would be. However, before giving James a bath Friday night I cleverly invited my sister in to “help” while Eddie finished up some yard work. She didn’t know it but I wanted her there just in case I melted down when I went to lather up his hair with shampoo. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me at all.
James is growing up but he hasn’t grown up.
He still has those big round eyes that gaze so inquisitively at the world going on around him.
His little boy hands still instinctively clinch around my finger when I tuck him in at night.
Yep, he’s changing by the minute these days, but I would have it another other way!