Or, the Return of the Littlest Mormon Republican.
We opted to get his hair cut for reals, at a for-reals hair cuttin' place where you can git your hair did up right, mostly because Jason instinctively wrapped his arms around Noah's head and shrieked GET AWAY FROM MY CHILD whenever he saw me approach with the scissors. Whatever, the shaking totally stops once I get some vodka in my system, but Jason insisted.
So FINE. Fifteen minutes and seventeen damn dollars later, Noah's hair is all business, no party, and 37% less likely to contain hummus from last night's dinner.
Pros: Dora the Explorer on television to stave off meltdowns.
Cons: They made Noah sit on the lap of some random goober in a striped sweater the whole time. Yeah, her level of excitement over Dora's goddamn backpack totally creeped me out too.
We brought the lip gloss from home. It's his most favoritest thing ever, especially when I give him all the various lip glosses that I carry around in my purse at the same time. Then he gets to build a fort!
I am posting this one only because I want someone to explain what the hell that other stylist is doing in the background. I say either: re-enactment of an awesome slow-motion bikini-carwash movie montage, or: the non-stop video loop of Spongebob has finally driven her around the bend and she's attempting to drown herself very, very slowly.
Jason seriously said the words "ORIGINAL HAIR" about four times during the haircut. They gave it back to us in a plastic baggie stapled to a certificate, because once you have a baby you become a big fat sentimental weirdo.
(But am I keeping this? OF COURSE I AM KEEPING THIS. IS PRESHUS.)
After. I admit I'm a little sad that our bath time shampoo mohawks are much less impressive now, but at least I haven't had to comb a booger out of his bangs in days now. Ah, sunrise, sunset. And snot.