Zachary and I were at a local shopping center doing errands this afternoon when we passed a children's salon. I'd noticed that the little man's locks had been growing longer; they were far below his ears and sometimes strayed into his eyes. "Why not?" I thought.The place was empty, so we went in. A very nice stylist gushed over Zachary's cuteness (I could hardly blame her) and told me her son was also named Zachary, then proceeded to buckle the little man into a red car-shaped seat. She presented him with a bucket full of toy cars, and swiftly threw the smock over him. All was going well: Zachary flung cars, the stylist trimmed quickly with Edward Scissorhands-like finesse. Then, she reached his ears.
Zachary suddenly realized what was happening to his head, and began to wail. He would not be comforted, not even by the "Baby Bumblebee" song. Luckily, though Zachary screamed his red little face off, the stylist kept remarking, "Wow, I've never seen a kid cry so hard and keep so still!" The whole procedure took under ten minutes, and we left with a balloon, a lock of hair, a "certificate," and photos of an angry little man.Here is the post-trauma pic (note the pacifying milk and balloon):
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