Sunday, we gave Quint his first haircut. He is 16 months old. It was a traumatic experience for all of us, but I think it looks mostly alright.
But first, we have the "before" pictures.
Front, and the atrocious back.
Quint's mullet has been a popular topic of conversation for quite some time now. We were both putting off cutting his wonderfully soft little hairs. We were finally both in agreement, at the same time, that his hair should be cut. All along, we've planned on buying clippers, and doing it ourselves. We figure we'll be good at haircuts by the time Quint cares what it looks like.
Since Hubby cut his own hair for ROTC all through High School, I asked him to take the first try at it. We used the longest guard possible. The clippers had a non-scary noise about them so Quint wasn't afraid of the actual clippers.
But like everyone on the planet, he hated having his head controlled and held still. So of course he started crying, which upset us even more than cutting his hair for the first time. Hubby strictly ordered me NOT to cry! "Yes, sir," I gulped.
The very worst and most pitiful thing about the whole process was where Hubby's mind went while shearing his young son. For some reason, he kept thinking about shaving people's unwilling heads before sending them to the gas chambers! "Wow, honey, I'm glad my mind didn't leap to Auschwitz."
Understandably, that severely rattled him, so I took over the shearing. When there were very few long or spiky parts, we picked him up and cuddled him. Once he stopped crying, I took him out on the porch to brush off his shirt. Poor guy had some hairs stuck to his lips, even. Finally, I just jerked off his hair covered shirt, in 41 degree weather, brushed off his face and neck and we headed in to the tub, where we finally got a good picture of the haircut.
After the trauma of the haircut, we probably spent an hour in the tub playing with cups of water. Where once again, our joyful little boy showed his shining face!