I cut Harry’s hair recently because he was scheduled for the ubiquitous “school pictures” (really?  At THREE?), and “unruly” was almost too mild a term for the mass of tangles on his head. He has a crown in the back in the shape of a hurricane (ironic, for a Katrina baby), and as his hair grows it tends to take on the look of recalcitrant bedhead.  Cute, in a warm, sleepy, kind of way, but not really portrait-worthy.

I cut his hair because I am fundamentally cheap, but my ex-sister-in-law the stylist showed me how to do it.  It’s ridiculously easy and I am good at it.  Even so, I still put it off until my hand is forced by the school photographer.  My reticence revolves around my absolute conviction that I can watch Harry’s childhood falling into need reddish curls on the floor every time I take scissors to his head.   Every time I cut his hair, a layer of the toddler falls away, and a older boy emerges.  I am afraid that eventually that the young man he is destined to become will pop out fully formed and walk out the door leaving me holding the scissors and waving goodbye.

Haircuts are an emotional minefield.

If I just hold off a little longer, will the baby stay with the hair?  It has all gone by so fast – too fast – and I am not ready to give up my place as my son’s bestest playmate.  His prettiest girl.  

I have just enough time left to hold him while he sleeps and whisper in his ear “I will always be your Mommy and I will always love you.  More than anything.  Longer than time.”

Before time itself steals him away.