My littlest has been busily growing his hair long. Not Hollywood-worthy long, don't get me wrong (a la Celine's and Kate's sons) but long enough that I recently bought tangle-free shampoo. For my BOY.
Once a week or so he gets mistaken for a girl, but that doesn't bother me so much because sometimes I wish he was a girl just so I could buy bows and frilly Easter dresses. I guess I could still do that...
Anyway, we have an appointment next Thursday for both boys to get their hair cut. Mickey's is a no-brainer: short as she can get it without using clippers. If I didn't have it cut that short, it would be my horrible childhood hair revisited. So we short it; he likes it.
Then we have Alex, whose hair couldn't be anymore opposite mine and Pete's if he wore a clown wig: it's blonde. It's straight.
And it's getting a tad bit out of control.
He hates to have it combed, until I remind him that Ms. Summer the gymnastics teacher, Ms. Christine who cuts his hair, and Ms. Sarah at school all like to see little boys' hair neat and combed (don't laugh, it works). Washing it isn't so bad since I've conditioned him to enjoy the near-drowning feeling as I rinse the heck out of it.
So yesterday I tried to pull it back and imagine him with a little boy haircut like his brother's. I couldn't. I couldn't even imagine what he would look like. Then my sister asked me if I ever parted it on the side. Every day, I told her.
So I think it's time for him to get a more grown up 'do. We don't live in Hollywood and his hair will soon start obscuring the basketball goal, the wiffle ball, and the golf tee. Horrors!
(Can one mourn after a haircut? Even if it's not your own?)
But wait, I still have a week or so to talk myself down...Please!??!