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.
