All that remained of my baby—my little boy—was being snipped off by scissors, landing on the salon floor. This had been a long time coming. For two, maybe even three years, he had been saying he wanted his hair shorter.
His father and I often laughed about how we had the opposite battle that many of our peers had with their parents when we were younger—kids wanted their hair long and their parents wanted it short.
But as the parents this time around, we were somewhat resistant to cutting off our baby boy’s locks. He had beautiful blond hair—the color of flax, naturally highlighted, over a warm golden blond. Perfectly straight and easy to manage, he had gotten compliments on his hair for as long as I could remember. Not-so-secretly my husband was jealous of his “awesome” hair, and told him so frequently.
While sitting and waiting for his haircut, I wondered just what I was holding on to. In all fairness, it was his hair and he wasn’t asking to do anything crazy with it. So, when the stylist pulled out the razor and started to zip up the back of his head, I held my tongue and watched as big chunks of my baby fell to the floor. I figured this would be just the first of many “battles” over fads, styles, friends, choices and behaviors—and there was no reason he couldn’t be the winner of this one.
Letting go for me usually only happens when someone pries my fingers from whatever it is I’m clinging to so desperately, but I know that too will have to change. Today I started practicing, one snip at a time.
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