My youngest is 16 months old, and could very well be my last baby. I find myself feeling more bittersweet than ever as I watch him grow like a weed and stand up to his two big brothers all on his own (smacking their faces is his weapon of choice).
So, not surprisingly, one of the things I’m holding on to right now is his hair. Not literally holding on (although I do play with it a lot…so silky!), but holding on to his baby look. He’s never had his hair cut, and I know how that first meeting with scissors can make baby boys turn into big boys, and all at once my baby will officially disappear. Leaving me in a puddle on the floor.
My family has launched a full fledged campaign to try and convince me, pressure me and cajole me into cutting his hair, but it’s not…um…cutting it. I won’t do it. You can’t make me. You’re not the boss of me.
I mean, just look at this:
How could I possibly? He’s been accused of having a mullet, but I propose mullets are back in style. It’s a baby mullet, or, a “bullet”. Bullets are the new black.
How about this: as soon as he can say the words “I want my hair cut off so I look way older”, then I’ll let scissors get near him. Until then? Accept the bullet, beyotches.