Weep. Weep. Weep.
I don’t recall feeling so distraught by a first hair cut before. But with this one . . . well . . . I wanted to fall on my knees next to his little pile of shorn hair and cry, “Why! Why would you do such a thing to your own son? What kind of mother would ever remove such beautiful soft fluff!?”
The back was far too long. I knew it was coming. In fact I kept asking Mike to do it. He wondered if I wanted to take him someplace to have it done, but I insisted that he would just scream for whoever cut it and it would be best if we just buzzed it quickly here . . .
Luckily his cousin Blaire sent him red moccasins on the same day. They softened the blow. (How could they not! Look at them!)
And telling him I hope he likes long hair . . . because we will never cut it again. . . .