Jack's First Haircut

I knew the time was coming: Jack needed a haircut. The curls were turning mullet-like, only because the front of his hair was short! (Let it be known, I otherwise would have let that boy's hair keep growing with those sweet strawberry curls!)

Here's a picture I took of the boys just a few nights ago. See how long it had gotten?

I ran my fingers through those soft curls a million times. I breathed in their sweet peach smell. I washed them with shampoo. I kissed them goodnight after a bedtime story.

There's something about the long, sweet curls that say baby. Little boy. Small.

So, when the time came that he did need a haircut, I didn't quite know what to do. When I say we haven't had good hair cutting experiences in Roanoke, I.Mean.It. I couldn't let some stranger cut my baby's curls for the very first time. That's special. That's memorable and meaningful. That's potentially tear-inducing.

So, what did I do? 

I cut it myself.

If you know me at all, you just gasped. Loudly.

I know. I can't believe I did it, either.

Why did I do it? Because I wanted it to be special. I didn't want some stranger cutting Jack's hair for his very first haircut. I wanted it to mean something. I wanted it to stay in my heart and my memory.

So, I took out the scissors and comb, and I got to work.

And may I say, for those of you who gasped and are still waiting to hear about a disaster. . .

. . . it turned out perfectly. I'm tooting my own horn. Per-fect-ly. Like, whoa. I got skills.

And yes, he looks like such a big boy. And my big boy is saying new words every day now! Slow down, little one.