The truth about haircuts

Dear Z,

Haircuts can be a bit traumatic (please see: any and all pictures of me from the 80s and early 90s). Personally, I have a love/hate/I-expect-the-world-to-change-to-a-place-where-my-hair-is-perfect-all-the-time-and-am-therefore-deeply-dissappointed-when-reality-hits kind of relationship with haircuts. So with that in mind, your first haircut yesterday wasn’t that bad. True, the off-kilter, accidentally asymmetrical bangs and super short hack job across the back (done by a joyless woman at a kids salon who really might want to consider a career change) makes you look a little like a farm boy whose mama can’t wield the hedge clippers with any precision. It’s not exactly the cute, sassy pixie cut I had in mind. You were wary and a bit confused; every time she would bring the scissors close to your head, you would turn and reach toward them with a perplexed expression on your face as if to say “what are these and WHAT are you doing with them?!?!?”

But there is a silver lining. It’s a simple one, really. YOU CAN SEE. Gone are the stray wisps that I loved so much for their concrete representation of babyhood but hated for their propensity to poke directly into your eyeballs. So even though you look like a miniature Dorothy Hammill, I am happy to report that It will be at least a month before I have to swipe my saliva tinged fingers across your forehead to create a baby version of Donald Trump’s comb-over. And for that I am grateful.