It’s probably in poor taste to admit that you don’t like your son’s very first haircut and to say that he looks like he walked straight out of the 1940s, back when giving youngsters soda pop seemed like a great idea and parents smoked cigarettes while tucking their little ones into bed at night.
So let’s just say our son’s first haircut was botched and that when we took him out of the colorful Thomas the Tank Engine barber's chair, he looked like he was ready to join the army.
Or work in an accounting department somewhere.
It was traumatizing, likely because it was mostly my fault, though not completely.
See, my husband was very apprehensive to take our child to the cheery salon down the road.
He even argued that we could save a few bucks and do it ourselves at home in a couple of minutes, but the idea of trying to hold down a squirmy baby boy while wielding a sharp object held little appeal.
We decided to take a peek inside the salon and then decide.
This is where the blame begins to shift, people.
You see, once there, my husband heartily allowed a frighteningly chatty woman with a love of blowing bubbles to give our son a trim, which really means it is entirely his fault that our beloved offspring now looks like a 1940s Campbell's Soup kid.
OK, that wasn’t very nice or mature of me.
And it also isn’t totally true because it was actually the crazy (and apparently deaf) scissor-happy stylist’s fault.
In all fairness my husband was probably dazzled by the fun chairs adorning the place (man, I know I was), and found himself agreeing to the ludicrous idea that a professional cut would look nice and, you know, be professional.
Apparently hairstylists still don’t listen to basic instructions, such as ‘just trim it to his eyebrows.’
To be clear, we did not say ‘just trim it an inch above his eyebrows,’ which is currently where his blunt-cut locks hang.
Seriously, this is the kind of thing a youngster never gets over (mostly because of the embarrassing photo albums that parents pass around to just about anyone expressing a pinch of interest long after their offspring have sprouted body hair).
Case in point, I’ve never forgotten all of the horrifying bowl cuts that my hairdresser gave as a child.
Actually, I am pretty sure that my ‘hairdresser’ was my mom, which makes me wonder whether she loved me as much as she claimed to. This is definitely something to ponder later (and probably best done while sifting through the evidence of my dreadful ‘dos chronicled in our family pictures).
Sadly, the real bummer here is that our baby no longer looks like our baby.
In fact, there are at least two regulars at the local park that now look more like our son than our son does. We loved his cute little baby waves, and now all but one small lock of hair has been swept up and tossed away. Sigh.
Thankfully Baby B hasn’t seemed to notice the confusion on our faces as we try to process his dramatic new look. But he might — he's a pretty observant young chap.
Yes, hairdresser lady, this is what you’ve done.