I have a thing about my youngest child- perhaps you’ve noticed. Not to be all Ma Bates over here, but my baby is my baby and a boy’s best friend is his mother.
Digression.
But even I’ll be among the first to admit that the kid needed a trim. His bangs went from Bieber-esque to Beatlesmania to “I bet your daughter’s really pretty under that waterfall of hair.” Even my Dad, the permissive rockstar that he is, casually mentioned that my boy child would probably be a lot happier if he could, you know, see. Nevermind the fact that, at fourteen months, Jasper would easily be my youngest salon-happy kid (Nora was bald until 18 months and Suzy was my Flock of Seagulls band member with a purty bow by her first week of life).
So we did it. We went under the knife, er, shears.
It’s all fun n’ games when your Mama slicks your hair back. Hey, are we outside or something?
Dad! When did you get here! I’m in a muscle car!
Wait a second. Are other people here? Are you doing something with those sharp things?
This was right around the time that Jasper realized he was getting one on one, personal attention. It confused him.
No, for real. This is kinda weird. But again, I might enjoy it.
HOLY JUNK, THIS IS THE BEST THING EVER!
What am I even looking at? What is this stuff on my hands?
And then it got real, because the stylist needed his bangs to be combed down for the trim.
We did not care for that. At ALL.
But then we got to play, so the Roo decided that things were fun, he was handsome, and vision was just the best.
And even though he looks like a slightly bigger man child version of my boy child, he’s still a baby. My baby. Forever.
In a totally non-worrisome way, I promise.
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