Tale of the Little Mullet Boy

It started on Easter weekend. (Yes, my son is hunting for eggs in camo. It pains me too. But focus on the hair.)



Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."

It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)

But look — adorable, yes?



Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.

Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.

And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.



Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.

To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.

Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.

The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:



And here:



By the time we got to this stage —



— the E-man was nearly mulletless.

I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.

And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.

(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)

Heh.