I very rarely take J to get his hair cut, resulting in an often very messy and unruly crop of hair on my little boy. What a bad and lazy mother I am! I object. Here is a photograph of J having his second ever haircut. He sat there beautifully, he even giggled a little, he waved to me in the mirror, and babbled away to the barber girl. He was 18 months old, and it seems a lifetime away now.
Since then, the older he has got, the less co-operative he has become, resulting in his last haircut probably looking to a passer-by like a torture scene. I sat in the chair and held him down, which was very difficult as I had to use just my arms to hold down both his flailing arms and kicking legs, whilst also holding his head in the right position. Hair flew everywhere and eventually got mixed with sweat, snot and tears to form a very sticky mess on both of us. The screaming was so bad that we scared away customers. It only lasted 20 minutes, but it felt like an hour. He sobbed all the way home, and I felt awful. You can see why taking J to have his hair cut is something I fear. I will his hair to grow as slow as possible.
So, I look back on the time that this photograph was taken with a great longing. I would love to take a happy boy to get his hair cut, and watch as he sits and chats, and comes away a more handsome and groomed little boy, sucking on a lollipop. ‘Tis not to be. A few days ago, I took a pair of small scissors while he was in the depths of sleep and cut off the hair around his ears, along his fringe and across the back of his neck. It will buy me another month before we inevitably have to go back to that dreaded Barber Shop.
This post is in response to The Gallery Week 23 prompt: A Memory.