The First Trim

So I finally cut Cass' hair. It was quick and heartbreaking. I cried. He did not. In fact, so taken with his own reflection in the mirror, he didn't even notice I was trimming away. Three or four clips across the back, taking off that little flip--the "baby mullet"--that barely covered the back of his neck with a super-fine pelt.

I was exhausted and irritated by the brazen, unsolicited comments and stupid inquiries. So I cut the hair that I waited so long to grow, however tempting the barbed retorts that sprung to mind, putting me in serious jeopardy of injuring friendly relations with acquaintances, pals and, yes, even family.

"He needs a hair cut." (really? because I think you could stand to pluck your nose hairs. And lose a couple pounds. But I don't say that.) "Are you letting it grow on purpose?" (isn't it crazy how hair just grows and grows and you don't even have to water it?) "How old is he now? Isn't it about time for a haircut?" (Oh my gosh, you're right! Shit! I hope he doesn't get tuberculosis. Or, wait, those are his shots, right? Phew.) "He looks like a girl." (Well, I really wanted a girl, so this is the compromise. Oh, you should see the dresses I put him in when we're at home alone!)

In truth, I just wasn't ready to cut it. I wasn't trying to be trendy. I wasn't trying not to be. [Although, for the record: little boys with longer-ish hair = all the rage right now.] For me, cutting Cass' hair was an emotional hurdle, as if his natural baby state wasn't absolutely perfect as-is--for shame! on all of you who suggest otherwise.

I'm over it now. He looks overwhelmingly adorable, that handsome little stinker, with the choppy hairline curling just above the edge of a turtleneck. And for those on my side, don't worry: it will grow back.