There are no more babies in this house
So last weekend I took the kids to get haircuts. I know I’ve mentioned it before,
but I’ll say it again: We go to the coolest salon around.
The barber
seats have been replaced with pedal cars (see image at left), and each
has its own tv. There’s a VCR that feeds each of the TVs and a huge
library of tapes to choose from. I popped in "Thomas The Tank Engine Does Something Or Other" and the two hairdressers got to work.* William cried only briefly and Grace was fantastic.
Now, they both look so cute, and so much older! The
hairdresser put gel in William’s hair, pushed it forward, buzzed the
back and sides and gave him those spiky bangs. GOD he looks SO FREAKING
CUTE I nearly imploded on the way home. I wanted to ditch our car and
just walk home, so I could thrust him into stranger’s faces and say, "Just
look at this kid. I mean, will you just look at him? Jesus H. Christ if
this isn’t the most attractive little boy you’ve ever seen then I don’t
know what you’ve been looking at. I mean, come on…did you LOOK at
him?!?" Of course, they’d agree, take photographs and call people
on their cell phones to come look at the earth-shatteringly beautiful
baby they ran into in the parking lot.
When my sister is overcome by cuteness, she’ll say something like, "God, he is so frickin’ cute I just want to punch him in the face."
I can’t explain it, but I know exactly what she means. Haven’t you ever
seen a bunny or something that was so cute, so perfectly charming and
gorgeous that you just wanted to smash it with a cast iron frying pan?
I have. My wife, however, saw William’s haircut differently.
"We’re not cutting William’s hair that short again."
"What? Why? He looks so cute," I said.
"He looks so much older, though. He doesn’t look like a little boy anymore."
"Well, he’s not," I said. "He’s pushing two."
"There are no more babies in this house."
"No."
[Pause]
"That’s it. No more short haircuts."
I guess I can understand. I mean, they’re sweet when they’re so
small and all, but I much prefer the
walking/talking/not-shitting-itself older versions of children much
better. And before you look at me with that twinkle in your eye that
says, "Will there be number three..?" (yes, I can see you), the answer is:
Oh. Hell. No.
*I’ve got a "thing" for hair dressers. Have I mentioned that? I
think it’s the whole gum-snapping attitude that many of them have. Or
memories of the attractive hair dresser my mom took us to when we were
young kids. Either way.
