My husband wants me to take the baby for a haircut. He says that the little Viking’s hair is driving him crazy because it is so long, uneven, and out of control.
I just can’t cut it. It would be like cutting my heart out – little snips at a time… watching my baby’s curls fall to the barber shop floor. Part of me would be forever dead.
We’ve long called him “Rooster” because his hair grew in like a Mohawk naturally. It is short on the sides and long and wispy or curly on top – not an even length anywhere… but oh, so dreamy. I love it. [And his head smells like heaven – especially with a touch of Bedtime Lotion.]
It’s not like he isn’t ‘presentable’. It isn’t way down over his ears. He doesn’t look like ‘Cousin It’ from the Adams Family. He hasn’t morphed into a hippie or a surfer dude yet. There’s really no reason to rush to the barber shop.
Can’t a mama enjoy those baby curls just a little bit longer? I don’t ask for much.
Daddy is the only one in the family who shares the opinion that Baby Bee is unfashionable. My mama has threatened that if I let him cut the baby’s hair, she’ll never speak to me again.
Little man doesn’t fret much about his hair. He’s just happy to have so many adoring fans in the family. [He pretends to be bashful, but he’s really not.]
Those curls will be gone soon enough…
… and I’m sure mommy will tuck one away in the baby book when Daddy finally wins the hair-cut argument… but for now… I’m happy just being wrapped up in them – in love.