I have been dragging my feet about the whole hair-cutting thing. Sure, I've trimmed Archer's locks once or twice but I've never sat down to give him a bonafide haircut.
Any new parent knows that a haircut is so much more than just a haircut. It's this weird new world of non-babydom. Where hair grows like a weed and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Even though it seems too soon. Too soon for haircuts and size 9 shoes and 3T clothes. How is he already in a 3T? HOW!?
First or even second or third haircuts are a hard pill to swallow for some parents. Myself included. And I'm pretty sure Kate Hudson knows what I'm talking about.
Today I bit the bullet and decided it was time to cut Archer's hair. Because it seemed like maybe it was bothering him, falling down in his face as I pushed him on the swing. One hand on the chain, the other in his face, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.
Archer in "The Before."
It took about an hour to get it right, carefully snipping little bits at a time as not to stab him with the scissors. Trying to distract him with the television as I scurried around him on my knees.
The whole time I kept shaking my head, muttering to myself like a mad woman.
"This is a horrible idea, Rebecca. Just horrible."
I gathered the hair up in a little pile. I made a little ball out of it, rubbing it in my hands for a moment before realizing how silly I was to feel so attached to a pile of hair. I quickly threw it away.
And then I cried.
Because I know that it won't be long until he needs another haircut. And then another. Because there is nothing I can do to keep his hair from growing. Or him from growing up. And because tonight I looked out across the living room at him dancing back and forth to Yo Gabba Gabba, his hair out of his beautiful eyes, dirt on his shirt, and food all over his chin and there was nothing baby about him. Not even a little bit.
He had suddenly become a little boy.
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