Wednesday, 15 June 2011
The second she started to snip, John started to scream.
He sat on the stuffed burgundy cushion, his little body as stiff as the squeaky leather seat beneath him, gripping my arm as tightly as he could and looking small and scared and vulnerable.
Then, as the scissors started to snap and the comb started to scratch, he opened his mouth wide in terror and let out the most honest of screams.
And as his soft downy hair filled the air and tickled our cheeks, and my boy screamed at his frightened, sobbing reflection in the mirror, I held his hand and stroked his knee whilst whispering "It's ok, it's ok, it's ok."
And although I'd spent months agonising over the right date for this milestone, and weeks debating the decision with friends, and even though just moments before the scissors snapped I'd felt panic rising in my chest at the thought that the final part of his babyhood was about to be cut off for good; as his beautiful blond curls fell softly about my feet, I was at peace with the reassuring words that I whispered.
Because I knew with all my heart that my little boy was beautiful and that he was loved, and that no kind of haircut could ever change the truth of those fundamental facts.