Last weekend I finally decided that I could no longer take the ridiculous way my toddler’s hair was growing (he had a nice combo of Billy Ray Cyrus’ mullet and Donald Trump’s swoop – nice, right?). So, I decided to bite the bullet and head over to a neighborhood barber shop and finally get him a professional haircut. This trip had been necessary for quite some time, but I had repeatedly resisted because my youngest is what you call “a wiggler” and I had visions of him losing an eye during the process. For this reason, I purposely went to the location containing a special airplane seat in an attempt to provide the greatest distraction. (For the record, I know all kids are not this way and I wish I knew how some parents received children that sit quietly on their laps during the process – if you have tips on that, please let me know)
We arrived the first thing in the morning and I quickly plopped my
monsterdarling son into the plane, reading for some quick action. (please envision me halfway in the chair myself, practically sitting on top of my son, in order to keep him seated long enough to strap him down like an insane asylum patient – good times) He was not pleased and he gave me and the stylist a long, hard stare to warn us that he only intended to cooperate for a split second.
He had just started spinning the steering wheel on the plane when the stylist placed the smock thing around his neck, whereupon he started screaming, “OFF, OFF, OFF” in a murderous tone as though he thought she was trying to strangle him. (Cut to mommy pleading with him to continue flying the plane)
shortly after the first screaming episode
He decided to give in slightly, meaning that he stopped screaming but then started looking around frantically for his big sister who had accompanied us on our search for good hair. I can only assume he figured that since mom was refusing to rescue him, perhaps sister would. She popped her head around me in an attempt to amuse him and he looked halfway amused.
still not sure about this haircut thing
Alas, this only worked for about 45 seconds before he once again started shouting, only this time he was chanting, “I get down, I GET down, I GET DOWWWWWN!!!” Right about this time he started trying to figure got how to get loose on his own and he almost did lose an eye when he suddenly yanked his head around in the direction of the scissors. We had only been there approx. 3 minutes at this point and I was beginning to worry that he would just have to learn to love his new half-mullet (the lady had only made it halfway around his head and it wasn’t pretty).
doing his best to get his eye poked out
Then, out of the seat across from us, we heard a marvelous sound: Donald Duck. I glanced over and saw an old man, also getting his haircut, but sitting still for his stylist unlike my wiggler, and he was trying to distract my son with the Donald Duck voice. At first, my son stared at him suspiciously because it didn’t seem right that the voice was coming from a man and not Donald Duck. (Yes, he does know Donald Duck because we watch way too much Mickey Mouse Club House) Then he started looking at the man with a kind of admiration, which then led to a smile.
our new friend, Donald Duck
I quickly instructed the stylist to CUTTTTT while we trying to continue with the new distraction! The poor man was forced to talk like Donald for another 5 minutes just so my baby wouldn’t hurl himself kamikaze-style out of the plane in another attempt to escape. I was very grateful for this man and his absurd talents. It allowed my son to at least get his hair shorter than his shoulders and with the Donald Trump swoosh mostly gone, even though it wasn’t completely straight and the front was a little short (this is no reflection on the stylist for I was really just grateful that he survived the war of the haircuts with both eyes intact).
We then received a lock of the mullet for his baby book and a certificate saying that he had passed on from babyhood thanks to his haircut (almost made me cry with that phrasing). As we left, I let him have his first lollipop as a reward for living through the ordeal (much to the chagrin of my grandma who told me I should never give a child lollipops because when she was little a baby died while eating one – seriously, that’s what she got out of my story of the haircut; guess I should be glad he survived the eating of his first lollipop as well).
Oh, yeah, no choking on lollipops here
Now, I am praying that his hair grows back very slowly so that I don’t have to deal with this again for a long time, which most likely means it will all be back by next week…I will have his second lollipop ready to eat during the haircut this time (sorry, grandma).