My child is blessed with a gorgeous mop of blonde hair and has been since birth excluding the brief period of frontal baldness that plagues most newborns. Unfortunately he has never been a fan of having a hair cut and has screamed in 3 different barbers faces. Luckily for me his Nanny is a hairdresser so she has been subjected to this task for the last 18 months and with the aid of a plate of food, a high chair, helpful family members and The Lion King Dvd she manages. But I keep trying to take him to the barber mainly because I don’t want to rely on my MIL forever. She already has the burden of doing her sons (and everyone else in her households) mop every 6 weeks or in Giles case when he realises that he has an important social occasion in the next 24 hours and his hair resembles a flaccid pot plant so his poor mother has to drop everything to cut it back into its spiky glory.
So this morning I decided to change tact and take him to a lovely ladies hairdresser instead of a scary barbers. There’s me at 8.30 while we get dressed explaining to my almost two year old with the enthusiasm of a Cbeebies presenter that he’s going to get a haircut! And if he’s a good boy and doesn’t hit, kick, or bite anyone he can have (drum roll) A BANANA! That’s right darling a Banana! But only if you get a lovely hair cut. A lovely lovely haircut! Yay for haircuts.
And off we go armed with my ipad, a packet of custard creams and the sacred prized banana. I’m feeling optimistic and I’ve dressed myself in my best organic cotton t-shirt to minimise the chance that I’ll get huge sweat patches 2 seconds into the ordeal.
Off we trot down the high street and we arrive at Ashelle’s, it smells nice and the owner is blonde and pretty and all the things Drake seems to find nice about a person (he defo prefers a pretty lady face over a hairy man face.) I’ve stripped down to my t-shirt (to minimise the sweating) and the ipad and biscuits are at the ready.
First hurdle is getting the gown on and we achieve this by me doing it and basically whipping it over his head whilst trying not to break any flailing limbs (his obviously not mine). The gown is on!!!
Surprisingly she manages to get round his ears while I make sure the slappy hands are occupied with biscuit and the rest of the hair cut goes ahead relatively well. I am of course despite my best efforts a sweaty mess and have probably lost all my bodily fluids through my arm pits and thighs (I always get sweaty thighs when I’m nervous and it’s obviously lovely and V. attractive quality.) but it’s quite windy outside so I simply walk home holding my arms apart as much as possible so as to give my skin a blow dry.
Once home we both celebrate – me by stripping off because actually it would appear I’ve sweat so much my bra is damp – lovely. And Drake by rolling around outside on a drain – his favourite hobby is sitting, standing, rolling on drain covers don’t ask me why. I then take several pictures of his hair to Watsapp to family members. Unfortunately he looks happiest in the drain pictures and not the lovely pictures I took in his wendy house so it’s a tough decision on which ones to send. I decide the drain picture is actually nicest in spite of the mud/drain/and general filth that surround him. (excuse my finger but he really likes me pointing at him and I didn’t feel like editing it out.)