On Sunday my 3-year old son received his first haircut. Each snip seemed to detach more than a lock of soft, curly hair. As the scissor blades gnashed together they removed small pieces of his purity too. After 20 minutes, all that remained of his baby-like wholesomeness was scattered across the barber shop floor. I hadn’t anticipated my visceral reaction to this common procedure and suddenly found myself staring at an unfamiliar child. Most people age over a prolonged period of time. Apparently a little boy can age in roughly 20 minutes! My son’s untouched mane had slowed his physical maturity, allowing me to relish his baby-like innocence a little longer. A simple trip to the hairdresser had unexpectedly become a harsh reminder of the fleeting nature of time. In my mind my son will always invite me into his bed to daydream with him. He’ll always need my help when he’s done on the toilet. He’ll always call for me when he's afraid. He’ll always demand one last snuggle before I say “goodnight”. And then I realize, he won’t. Haircuts suck.
