After the 7th or 8th time someone referred to my little boy as “she” this past week, I caved in and made an appointment to have his beautiful golden curls whacked off.
This event, more than any other, has made me grieve the passing of his babyhood. All of the previous mile markers were victories, and really with his DNA, growing hair is a victory, albeit probably short lived. But in spite of all that, this cutting of his baby curls just seemed to be a passing of a point of no return. And I didn’t want to pass that point without kicking and screaming and wailing and gnashing teeth just a bit. I want to go back and do it all over again, even the really hard parts.
Immediately after I called the salon, I called Godmother Gigi, she of The Magic Purse. I’d heard horror stories involving little boys and barber chairs (specifically my own two nephews) and I begged her to meet us there knowing that she could get the best out of him. And being a nurse, I knew that she could help me if I fainted.
But then I remembered that she’s a labor and delivery nurse and that it’s her policy to step over or on anyone who’s fainted and attend to the patient.
GiGi is always pulling out some fascinating object out of her magic purse, like keys, that make his big blue eyes glaze over in unequaled and unconditional adoration. I could pull an elephant out of my purse and he’d yawn and squirm to get away.
Gigi showed up on time with the magic purse in hand, out of which she pulled Sean’s Godfather, Dick (sometimes known as Poopah) — which was even better than keys. Dick is really a 10-year-old boy dressed up as a responsible adult and he does cool things that little boy’s love, like drive tractors and fly commercial airplanes.
Anyway, Carrie, the stylist, hoists him up into this little car and pops in a Thomas the Train video and sets about the task of quickly and unceremoniously chopping off the best two years of my life. Dick ran the video camera, Gigi worked the magic purse and I stood in the corner trying not to sob out loud. At the end of this amputation of my motherhood, some strange little boy who I’d never seen before, but remarkably resembled my husband, happily popped out the car/chair ready to move on with the rest of his (sniff sniff) life.
As Sean handed Carrie the tip, she handed me a “Frequent Reward Card” which states that after nine haircuts, the 10th one is free! Oh boy. Let’s see…. with one haircut every two years, we’ll be getting that free one in 2024 – just in time to send him off to college – the ultimate umbilical amputation.