I always have to laugh at Ethan's haircut days, as frequent as they are, my own hair tied up in an unwashed, unkempt bun held together by decrepit elastic bands. He enjoys waiting in the salon lobby, loves the tall, plush chairs across from the reception desk where everyone smiles at him and inevitably asks me if it's his first haircut. Or 13th. I've lost count by now. I just know that Ethan's shaggy, surfer-dude locks require upkeep and we always receive several clear cues as to when we're due for another cut, exemplified by the fact my son begins to wear his hair in ponytails and is frequently mistaken for a little girl or the fact I can typically tuck his hair into the back of his shirt to hide the mullet. All surefire signs it's time to call my amazing stylist -- the only person allowed to touch Ethan's hair, not that I'm massively overprotective of it or anything -- and have him clean up Ethan's mop of hair.
See? All signs were pointing to time for a haircut (or, you know, dreadfully overdue for a haircut).
Ethan's typically really good about getting his hair cut. Maybe he's just used to it by now, but his squirms are kept to a minimum and he follows instruction well to hold onto the toy or the hair clip or the ball or whatever he's given as a distraction technique. He loves the blow dryer at the end and leaves the salon looking cleaner, less disheveled...and at least a solid year older. Each time. How does that happen?
Haircut days are always a mixture of relief to no longer comb knots and melted cheese out of pieces of hair stuck to the back of Ethan's neck and also sheer shock that my baby, well, isn't really a baby anymore. My husband inevitably remarks at the end of each day upon seeing post-haircut Ethan for the first time that he looks more like a child, less like a baby, and not at all like the little boy he said goodbye to this morning. I am rich with reminders of how quickly time passes and the reminder that his smile holds all that I need.