My hormones must be really playing havoc. I didn't just have a sad day when Scouty went up in her nappy size.
My little man has long had shaggy, surfer dude kind of hair (to the right). Blonde, messy, long. I had cultivated it that way. In fact, I rejoiced that he looked like a junior version of Ben Kweller. Only cuter.
My husband decided that it was time for a hair cut while he was on paternity leave. He organised an 'adventure' whereby they'd go off for playtime and then a hair cut. I semi-accompanied them, but snuck off to do some shopping for our new babe. I left them at Kids Central in Chatswood with strict hair cutting instructions.
Keep the length
No mullets, no mohawks
No North Shore haircuts
I went off repeating that mantra, trusting that they heard me. They understood. That they were trustworthy.
Off I trotted, a little nervous. Noah has only ever had trims, nothing drastic, but I had given strict instructions and deep down I believed they would be carried out.
On my return I scanned the store looking for my little man. No where. Then I wondered why this small child was gravitating toward me. On closer inspection, I realised it was my child. MY CHILD. My eyes boggled. He looked about three years older. The tears in my eyes not only welled, they streamed.
So you might think I am a pathetic mother. But this was my firstborn, my baby - looking like a big boy. How could my instructions lead to him with this drastically different hair cut. He didn't look like my little man anymore.
The moral to this story is - don't trust your husband to carry out your haircut dreams on your babies. They wind up looking like they're ready for school, and when your hormones have gone haywire, it's the ingredients for another sad, sad day.