I cut my baby’s hair. If you know me, you know this is a momentous occasion. I don’t remember being so attached to my other boys’ first strands but maybe I was. I do know they at least had haircuts before one year of age.
Jack will be two in May and has long-since been nicknamed the Comb-Over Kid. “He just won’t be the same without his comb-over flapping in the wind behind him,” my husband quipped as I wrapped the black cape around Jack’s neck and then stuffed the gap with tissue paper.
Many months ago, the ribbing began. Most of his hair was a reasonable length but right at the top of his crown grew a lock that ran down the back of his head and barely past his neckline. I knew it was silly. I remember my confusion and over moms who wouldn’t cut off their babies’ wild and wooly tresses. He would just look so nice with a trim, I thought as I fingered their wispy baby fuzz. And still, I became one of them.
He’s had some of those strands since he was in my womb, I thought to myself so many months ago. And then, he had some of those strands on his newborn head when I sniffed and cradled it for the first time. Months later, he had some of those strands as an infant… ate his first solid food… sat up for the first time… said Mommmmm for the first time. I’m attached to that hair.
But it was time. So without tears, or over-emotion, I snipped away at Jack’s baby-fine locks, cleaning up his appearance. “He looks like a little man,” my mother exclaimed. And he did. He does. His baby days are behind him and my boy is a boy.
He runs like a boy, talks like a boy, and sasses his momma better than any boy I know. I saved a lock of silky golden strands to remember my baby and welcomed the kid who’d worn it too long.