We finally cut his hair.
From this:
To this:
(And then he promptly fell on his face in the front yard. Notice the forehead bruise on the right side of his head?)
(But he's pouting in this picture because I wouldn't give him more dessert, not because he fell.)
(What kind of mother won't give her son more dessert after he falls on his face?)
Anyway, I don't know why cutting his hair was such a ridiculously big deal to me. It's so cliche! And, trust me, I used to mock plenty of people who'd write posts about being unable to cut their precious baby boy's hair. Ridiculous, I'd think. It's hair and they look homeless. Just cut it.
But I didn't want to cut Kyle's. I thought he looked just fine with shaggy hair that would hang below his shoulders when wet. Homeless worked on him, I thought. Even if he was called a girl by more people than I can count on one hand.
You hold on to what you can, I guess, and I was holding on to that hair.
Mike found a piece of food in it the other day from a meal he had eaten the day before.
There was day-old food stuck in my son's hair and no one had noticed.
(We don't give him a bath every night because we might be sentimental as hell, but we're also cursed with a lazy streak.)
"I think it's really time to cut it, babe." Mike said this quietly to me because we've been together a while now and he knows that his wife is crazy and you have to be careful with crazy people sometimes.
(That's my wise life lesson of the day. You're welcome.)
I sighed, really loudly, and he braced himself.
"Okay. Fine."
He looked surprised. Hell, I was surprised myself.
You can't argue with half-eaten bagel, I suppose.
So, we finally cut his hair. No promises we won't wait another year and a half to do it again.