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Haircut, Haircut Number Nine

Sharp scissors, meet tender cornsilk hair. It’s inevitable, this side of Samson. First haircuts happen, even those we try to stave off with the mighty will of a wistful mom inhaling the scent of a baby’s freshly-washed whirls and curls.

Out of our seven boys, Ollie had the most hair by toddlertime. A bar graph would show him exceeding his big brothers by miles. Not only is he shaggier, his head is covered in curls in the back. They are so soft, the stuff of baby ducky’s dreams. I bristled at the idea of cutting his hair, so we let it grow long. But it was beginning to interfere with his vision while playing. I was constantly brushing it out of his face, it was constantly tumbling back.


Recently, we took him to get his first haircut. This was a really big deal for me because he’s our last baby. Our last baby’s first haircut is my last first haircut. Oh, my heart. I took a zillion photos of the back of his head, to memorialize the curls. I assumed they’d be on the chopping block because of one word: Mullet. If they lopped off the sides and top and left the curls, he’d be too Kenny G .

Didn't Motley Crue sing a song called, "Curls Curls Curls"

Thankfully, the stylist at a children’s salon took one look at his curls and said she didn’t want to chop them off. She could trim the hair on the sides and back in layers and “make him look like a surfer.” This struck me as really funny. He wasn’t a fan of the salon experience, despite his perch in a tiny firetruck with working bell. The stylist worked quickly and he was done.


Cowabunga, dude. There were a few stragglers, but it adds to his mystique as a tiny surfer dude.

After, thinking about some choice waves.

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