I told him over and over again that it was just a haircut.
I told him that it wouldn't hurt a bit. That he would look so handsome afterwards. That I would give him a lollipop when it was all over.
And still he protested mightily, whimpering and clinging to me the whole time. It wasn't a furious scene like last time, thank goodness. There was no screaming or flailing or streaming tears.
But there was tension and muted murmurs of protest, as if he knew something that we adults don't like to think about.
As if he knew exactly what these photographs prove: that with each lock of hair shorn a piece of his sweet babyhood falls away and flutters irretrievably into the past.
