It was borne of necessity, really. D is my two year old that would rather endure antiquated torture methods than a haircut. In fact, my friend and hairstylist has offered jokingly to pay to have me take him to another stylist to cut his hair.
The last time I took him to her for a haircut was an experience. If you had walked by and seen us, you would have undoubtedly thought a violent crime was getting ready to take place. I had his hands and feet held down, his dad had a grip around his head to keep it from swinging around, he was screaming bloody murder, and the hairstylist was edging ever so slowly to him with shears in her hands. I’m sure he’ll be recounting that years from now in therapy.
We’ve used cute haircutting capes, no cape, standing up, sitting down, bribery…..you name it. He just doesn’t like having his haircut. But it had to be done. He was looking a lot like David Spade in Joe Dirt. No child of mine will have a mullet that would make Billy Ray Cyrus envious. That was it. I decided to cut it myself.
I figure if I make too much of a mess, my friend will feel obligated to fix it and cut his hair finally. The only way I had any hope of making this work was confining him to his high chair and placing a heaping bowl of ice cream in front of him. Done.
The ice cream did manage to keep his attention well. There were just a few times he noticed the scissors. When he did, he said, “No, Mommy.” Then I would hide the scissors and move to the other side. As soon as he was totally immersed in his ice cream again, I would go back to it. I knew there was no way to make everything perfect and straight…..even if I did have the skills (which I do not). However, even with my hack job, he at least now looks like a child of 2014 and not 1986.