With a touch of French, as a nod to Van Gogh
Fact: I have almost always cut Noah’s hair myself.
Wait, check that – I have always cut Noah’s hair myself since this salon-produced coiffure:
Now, try not to focus so much on the completely adorable two year old Noah face and rather, look at the mop on top of his (SWEET SQUISHY SQUISHY WIDDLE EAT HIM UP OMG) head. I’ll admit, it’s not the worst hair anyone has ever had (three words: seventh grade perm) but I’m just going to throw aside any pretense of humility and come right out and say that that boy has some DAMN fine hair to work with. I mean, it’s thick, it’s shiny, it’s glossy, it’s the color of warm, dark coffee…it’s FANTASTIC. Amiright? Yes. Yes I am. And that cut just wasn’t, well, cutting it. It made his hair look removable, like he was one of those tiny yellow men straight from the Lego box. Plus, a haircut cost anywhere from $15-$20 dollars and inevitably would at some point involve me having to apply all my body weight to his shoulders to get him to stay still as he screamed to get down. So I figured, if it was going to be like that anyway, I might as well ruin his hair by my own damn self for free, thankyouverymuch.
And really, it looked a whole lot better after I started cutting it. There was still crying, for sure, but I could always bribe him with some chocolate milk and a DVD to power through to the end, and as time went by I got better and better at it and reduced his Lego man likeness to a minimum. I bought some good haircutting scissors, and never, ever, upon pain of death used them to cut any other thing but hair. (Meaning, they’ve always stayed nice and sharp. THIS COMES INTO PLAY LATER ON.) I got faster, and even started using clippers to tidy up the sideburns and back. And Noah learned to trust me over time – that I would be as quick as I could, that I wouldn’t let the tiny hair pieces irritate him for too long, that I would always count before expelling the huge woosh of air in his face, that I would provide lollipops, that it wouldn’t hurt.
And then on Saturday I took that kernel of trust lovingly built up over three years and shot it straight to hell in a potato gun.
I wasn’t even doing a full cut – I just needed to make him look a little less like this guy. So really quickly (It will be so quick! And you can have a lollipop afterward!) I whipped out my scissors before bath time and did a speedy touch up, blades flashing.
And I lopped off the top tip of his left ear.
OH MAYBE YOU THINK I EXAGGERATE, but when I realized what I had done and saw blood and more blood and also still more blood, I tossed the scissors onto the bathroom counter and was horrified to see a chunk of his ear still on the blades as they landed.
(Pause here for full body shudder.)
(Ok, everyone good? All right.)
I did my very best to keep my Everything’s Peachy! face on while calming him and applying pressure to the top of his ear, but over the top of his cradled head I was shooting L looks of wide eyed freak-OUTedness, mouthing OHHHH EMMMMMM GEEEEEEE over and over again. Rosie was unusually somber in the bathtub as this went down, big concerned eyes on her sobbing big brother.
“Noah is sad, Ro. He’s sad because he’s hurt. He got a boo boo on his ear. He’s sad,” was my clumsy attempt at Simultaneous Kid Comforting.
“Yeah, because you cut my EAR with SCISSORS!” Noah wailed.
Touché, mon fils blessés.
English translation: I CUT THE CRAP OUT OF MY KID’S EAR WITH SCISSORS, YOU GUYS.
I guess the Lego man ‘do will be making a comeback.