My scrappy, hippy boy became a little man this morning. I dreaded it. Avoided. Pushed back the first real haircut for more months than I should have. People began to mistake him for my little daughter. And I still waited. I read an essay I wrote at an author's reading called "Boys Boys Boys" all about my denial that he is my second son and that I can't bring myself to cut his hair. The awareness was there, but still I waited.
His blonde wisps crawled past the collar of his striped shirts. I constantly wrestled his bangs away from his eyes, but his hair was so fine no gel could hold it in place. Last night, as I cuddled him in his new big boy bed, sweeping my fingers through his goldilocks that are now dimming to the same brown as his big brothers.
This morning, with no fan fare, no witnesses save one snoring dog, I took the clippers to the back of his head, used the #4 length, and brushed the hippy-girlishness right off of him. I expected a fight from him. But I guess I had fought so much internally, there was no reason for him to. He sat still, chomping on an orange. Probably, he was relieved to be what he should be. A little boy. Mommy's little boy.
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