If you are not a trained hairstylist…let this post be a warning to you.
There is no price too high which should deter you from taking your 16 month old to a professional for a hair cut.
You’re welcome. And I’m fuckin serious.
Should you decide not to heed my advice, please first attempt to cut the hair of a feral kitten. If this is successful, proceed with the baby.
I skipped the feral cat step and went straight for the gusto. Freshly napped Mae? Check! Baby scissors and comb? Check! Sisters busy in the livingroom? Check! …I was determined to turn her mop of grown out ridiculousness into girly poofs of beauty before my brother’s wedding in 3 weeks. Today seemed as good a day as any. “I totally got this. No sweat. I’ve cut the older girls’ hair before…this is even less hairparts. Total win!”
Oh.my.shit. Never again. It started off fine: running water kept her happy & distracted & close-to-sitting (sorry environment!), I decided to tackle the mullet we had happening at the back and that went pretty uneventful & smooth. Until…we spotted…the comb! Oh my how she needed that comb! Swipe, swat, pull, scream…givemethatfrickenthinglady…she won. Comb was hers & I was officially down a tool. And then? Down under the tap to drink some water! Then just as quickly back up to fake-brush our teeth with the comb! Then back down to drink! Then back up and TWIST to see for better teeth brushing techniques! Down! Up! Twist! BRUSH HAIR WITH COMB!
I would pull a small line of hair through my fingers, get it right to the ends I wanted chopped, open the scissors to chop and…”whaaaaaaaaaaaaat are you doing Moooooooooom?” No less than a million times I almost cut my child’s eyeball flat out of her head. No less than a dozen times I had to go back over a portion of her head after I was forced through motion to cut a little shorter than I intended. I had to wrestle the comb back when I discovered I was powerless without it. The only excitement within grabbing distance was a sealed bottle of infant acetaminophen. Judge away, we certainly did pretend to drink drugs for the last 10 minutes of the hair cut. Desperate times, folks. Desperate times.
There were tears. Mine. I stopped myself three full times before making the first cut.
She’s had those tiny little whisps since I birthed her. Those little perfect strands of hair grew along with her spine/lungs/brain/fingers in my belly. Oh my heart. So I put them in a bag….
I must say though…my girl? Lookin pretty cute. It didn’t really grow her up any with her new cut (thank god!) but it cleaned her look up somethin fierce. And while I’ll never even consider a career in hairdressing, I think this rookie Momma did a damn fine job:
Happy first-haircut Day Mae!