When Cy grew his very first ‘official’ curl, part of me was green with envy (I always wanted curly hair) and the other part of me swore I would never cut it. I pictured a perfect little cherub with curly blond locks that would eventually cascade down his back in an adorably romantic yet still rock’n’roll mop.
Everything was going smoothly (well, curly) until recently, when suddenly Cy’s hair hit THAT stage. The awkward party-at-the-back-but-not-in-a-hip-way mullet/afro. On a good day he looked like Bob Dylan. On a bad day he looked like, well, Bob Dylan.
I know, I know. the in-between stage is always the hardest. Those few times I plied him with cookies and secretly snuck up behind him with Dust’s clippers in hand, Dust would catch me and yell “put down the clippers where I can see them! ” and I would take deep breaths while backing away slowly. I tried to comb the hair. Brush it. Braid it into a rat tail even.
But when Cy started mushing food into it and forming nests of curls, bananas and spit just waiting for some vagrant pigeon to lay eggs in, I had to draw the line.