There’s something tragic about a child’s first haircut. Cutting those soft, downy tendrils which grow according to nature’s whim, imposing adult styles dictated by the dual bondage of fashion and social convention. I resisted cutting Rose’s as long as possible, which turned out to be almost three years. She wore clips (remember?) but Theodore can’t do that, unless I want him taken for a girl.
The time had come. Food was perpetually stuck in the foremost strands, clashing with his thick, dark eyelashes. In haste I took my sewing scissors and made a few deft snips. And behold
I gave him a mullet.
* Photo by my friend Chris Luttenberger