For those few deranged people who have ever thought I had some depth of character, some rich wisdom to share, this confession will certainly make that fuzzy vapor of an idea fly like sand coming off of a shaken beach towel. I had Brighton’s hair cut yesterday and now every time I look at him, I mourn. It’s gone- all 2 pounds of it. Even his new blonde highlights which had just emerged during our two weeks of swimming lessons. Granted, he needed it cut, a little. With his baseball hat pulled down low like he likes it, he was verging on a blonde imitation of Hannah Montana’s dad. Was this my intention, that his neck which hadn’t seen the sun for months be exposed and naked? Absolutely not, but his hair needed taming, sort of. Being the polite person that I am, I even told Miss Pro Cuts that I knew she was the “hair cutter” (probably not the best description) and I wasn't, but “remember that hair looks longer wet than dry, so be sure to keep it about right here,” as I traced the bottom of his eyebrow and ear. I did everything short of taking the clippers in my own hands to ensure “too short” would not be in my description and those two words are all I can think of when I see it. I know. I know. It will grow.
A silly sadness. A meaningless mourning.