All Shaven and Shorn

My little boy passed his year-and-a-half mark back in March. I've been meaning to drag him in to a hair-cutting establishment for some time, as his hair is getting longer and less manageable...and not in the "High School Musical" fashionably unkempt way, either. It is so easy to put off anything involving George, especially something like a haircut, that requires happy feelings, good nap time karma, and other hard-to-conjure variables. If it were a breezy thing, I would just pop out the clippers and do it myself. But I know better

The day we were packing to go down to be with Mark's family for a couple of days, I just sort of snapped. I grabbed Hyrum and George, left Gabba in charge, and drove to the nearest salon that accepts walk-ins. George went first. Every lady in the place was instantly charmed by him. "Isn't he adorable?" "Just look at those huge, blue eyes!" "What a sweetie!" I hope none of this goes to his head.

The salon had this nifty little seat just for kiddeos, complete with a steering wheel. That steering wheel was the saving grace of our haircut outing. George squirmed, and tried to look at the lady who was combing his hair and cutting his locks. But he never let go of that steering wheel. And Julie (I think) just rolled with the wiggles.

And when it was over and done with, the newly trimmed George got a sucker...

which he ate with much aplomb, as he wandered around the salon, staring at people and acting charming (he also observed the location of the sucker basket, and when he finished the first, headed back and helped himself to another - the salon ladies thought this was just so funny);


and I got a certificate for documentation, complete with the traditional first snippet of hair. After Hyrum's hair was done (nice to see his ears and eyes again!), and he got a sucker, too (never too old for Dumdums, I guess), we headed home and finished packing our over-night stuff. They both looked much better, and I'm always amazed at what a haircut does to move a little kid from "baby" to "boy". I was particularly happy that George was clean-cut and free of injuries. I knew there was going to be picture-taking going on, and I was relieved to have a bruise/scab-free toddler for the weekend.

But.

We weren't back Home-Sweet-Home 24 hours before my little dare devil sustained his first-ever black eye. Roughhousing (it's all fun and games until someone looses and eye) with his Daddy, jumping off the nightstand and launching himself at Mark's head...and then jumping back. Mark is innocent, I know, because I was watching. George simply misjudged the distance from the bed to the nightstand. Corner connected to eyebrow. Blood and crying ensued, followed shortly by much fussing over and comforting of the poor, unfortunate acrobat.

The next morning, that eyelid was all puffy and pink and super-shiny, almost like a bad make-up job for an infomercial. George could open it fine, but he sure wasn't letting anyone touch it or take pictures of it. This picture here is actually three days later. By then, you couldn't see much if his eye was opened and looking straight at you. But it was a full rainbow of pretty colors.

He still wasn't cooperating for pictures, though. I tricked him by asking him questions about the neighbors' cat that was at his feet in the driveway (hence the enthusiasm on his little injury-prone face).

Mark promised me as soon as this heals up, we are getting the family pictures I've been on his case about since last September. Promised.