We interrupt all this fancy Hollywood talk to bring you a good old-fashioned hysterical mommyblogger moment of complete and total overreaction:
OH MY FREAKING GOD LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY BABY.
Compare that with a photo taken last week -- right after I attempted to take him for a haircut but chickened out because there was kind of a long wait down at the local kiddie salon, OH WELL! NO HAIRCUT TODAY, let's get us some tacos instead.
I know little boys with long hair are not everybody's cup of styling gel, but oh. I love Noah's curls. I love his shaggy little moptop and while I try to keep his bangs trimmed up and the back from getting too mullet-y at home, there does come a point where I have to admit that he needs a real and actual haircut. Usually around the time that other kids start mistaking him for a girl at the playground, or when I find myself playing with his hair and subconsciously pulling it into pigtails.
Fine, I said. I'll take him for a haircut.
I've actually been That Person and taken him to see MY stylist -- piggybacking on my own appointment, all innocent and oh! Look! Here's my husband and my adorable child! I bet they brought cash! Hey, while you've got your scissors out and everything, would you mind giving my son back the gift of unobscured sight? Thnx.
But then my stylist moved to Utah and I have lived in fairly blissful denial since that ANYONE in this house needs a haircut, myself included. And oh yeah, there's that whole sensory THING, meaning Noah freaks the fuck out over haircuts and I feel guilty taking him to any salon that doesn't 1) regularly deal with freaking-the-fuck-out toddlers, or 2) have the mighty mighty power of Thomas the Tank Engine videos on little televisions. Also, hair-covered lollipops.
Fine, I said. I'll take him to the kiddie kut-n-kry.
The first sign that this was a Mistake came right as Noah's name was called and my phone rang and oh, dear, jesus, lord, it was my NEW salon calling to cancel my own desperately-needed pre-Blogher hair appointment this weekend. I hoisted Noah onto the booster seat while begging and pleading for Sunday? Monday? TUESDAY? You can't DO THIS TO ME, MAAAAAN.
Noah concurred, maaaan, and took a flying boneless slither-leap off the chair and started running for the door.
"Shit!" I said.
"Coughahemshhh!" the mother of the four-year-old at the next station said.
Noah ended up on my lap for his haircut, completely disinterested in Elmo on the TV, while I tried to hold still in a full-body lock and hissed to the stylist that it would be great if she could switch the television over to T-H-O-M-A-S or maybe D-O-R-A.
"Thomas?" she barked. "I don't think we have any Thomas. Is that the one with the train?"
"THOMMMMMMASSS!" Noah wailed. "I WAANNA THOMASSSS!"
"M-O-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R." I hissed.
I asked her for a trim. "We like it pretty long and curly. He just needs a little cleaning up is all, around the ears and neck, mostly."
I don't know whether this woman was in the midst of a personal tragedy that was, in fact, interfering with her ability to do good hair, or was maybe just a robot whose styling programming was limited to:
If [GIRL] Then
[consider listening to words coming out of mother's mouth]
Else [BOY] Then
[chop hair to hell]
But she started cutting and like, 14 seconds later Noah's curls were covering every inch of my stupid black leggings (I am pregnant and I have developed a passionate dislike of pants, okay? lay off). I sat there blinking in shock over this...child...who did not look like my child anymore and I realized we needed to get the hell out of there before I had a complete hormonal meltdown over a couple stupid inches of hair that would grow back, I know it will grow back, but...but...oh my God. I need a burrito right this instant.
After lunch, Noah accidentally let go of the balloon he'd gotten post-haircut and was weeping again. When we got to our car he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. His hands went up to his head and his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Oh Shelby," I sighed. "Your hair. Is so short."
"I a big boy," he informed me.
I suddenly had a vision of a day when Noah comes home with a military buzzcut he'll have gotten out of rebellion from his hippie hipster parents who are always on his case to leave his hair long, and concurred that yes, he was, while silently swearing that scissors are not going near that child for the next six months, and I don't care that I am being ridiculous or if it gets long enough for a French braid, I am so not ready for the big boy hair.