My baby is gone.
In his place, is a mini-Marine, thanks to his father.
I will be the first to admit he needed a haircut. I will also say he's never going back to that chop-shop again.
All his little baby hair is gone. And I do mean ALL of it. The lady asked if I wanted a little-boy haircut, and of course I said yes. I meant for her to just TRIM the back, sides, and bangs, leaving some soft, fine baby hair. Cullen, as you can tell, did not want his hair cut. His intuition probably told him he'd hate it after he saw it.
My poor little baby.
His father is idly standing by... no, not idly. He is aiding in the traumatization by forcing this tiny baby to sit through the entire thing.
This was before she started, hence the dry face, unfisted hands, and closed mouth.
Cullen, on the ride home, contemplating what he ever did to deserve this.
Looking wistfully out the window, and longing for the days when he had hair for the wind to ruffle.
And at home, too embarrassed to even lift his head.
Now that I've posted this for posterity, I'm going to indulge in a good weeping. I will weep for the trauma my baby endured at the hands of his father and "barber" today. I will weep in solidarity with him. I will weep for the little baby hair I will no longer be able to run my fingers through. But mostly I will weep while I think about his little bald head.
On a side note, the barber shop gave us a certificate to put in his baby book to commemorate this day. It said that Cullen "has bravely met all the requirements of receiving his first haircut and has graduated from babyhood on the 29th day of February in the year of 2008."
HA!!! Not one person in that place would agree he bravely met anything!!!
To type those words, I had to actually go get the certificate. I had stopped reading at bravely, because it was too comical, but the "graduating from babyhood" has begun the tears anew.