Confession time. I can really be such a wimp at times. Like totally so.
Like I know how baaaadly Jay needs a haircut.
See? Fringe past his eyebrows, and his ears.
See? (He’s doing his rhino impersonation with that finger)
See?
And yet I can still drag my feet on arranging an auspicious day, date and time for me to bring him to the hair salon.
No, not because of the cost involved. Sure it’s expensive, but I’m cool with that.
It’s the screaming that I can’t handle. And the writhing. And the pained looks from the other patrons in the salon. Once, he was kicking up such a big fuss in the kids’ salon, a mother who happily strolled in with her kid quickly turned tail and almost ran out the door.
He ordinarily calms down pretty fast when he is throwing a tantrum. He’s a pretty sweet kid. Outside the salon.
So yes, I am a wimp.
Teresa used to laugh at my wimpy-ness. And she insisted sending Jay for his last haircut. And experienced the screaming first-hand.
She hasn’t bugged me on the length of his hair since.
So maybe I can get some bohemian, new age-y thing going on for Jay. That might be pretty cool. Hot for this weather, but he will look waaaay cool. That’s quite good, isn’t it?
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