The week before Halloween
I informed Ethan he would, at long, long last, be having a haircut. The kid looked like Paul McCartney in the Yellow Submarine years. He loved it. I didn't.
I didn't really hate the hair, because when it was clean and combed he looked kind of cute, in a middle schooler teeny-bopper-movie sort of way (I always had a thing for Paul McCartney), but the Turret's-like head twitch he had developed to keep his hair out of his eyes was driving me nuts, and though he swore he could see, I couldn't see his beautiful eyes. I missed them.
"OK, Ethan. Haircut time."
"Mom, please, wait..."
"But wait..." he began to argue, me already shaking my head and getting the angry-mama look ready.
"I'll make you a deal!" He begged.
"No deals. Bathroom. Now." (Why does motherhood have us revert to cavewoman talk?)
"IF YOU LET ME KEEP IT LONG FOR HALLOWEEN I'LL LET YOU BUZZ MY HEAD AFTER!" He blurted.
No need to think about it.
"I'll take it." I smiled. Wow. This was awesome. For the past year Ethan has been fighting haircuts, and if I take off 1/2 an inch he has a fit. A buzz? Please. Twist my arm.
I decided to give him a regular old haircut instead of a winter buzz. The clippers barely made it through. At the end, there was a large dead-cat's-worth of hair in the tub. He pretended to cry through it, whimpering with his bottom lip out (though smiling a little), and saying "wa."
"Hey, this was your deal." I gloated.
"Wa." he grinned.