Harper got her first haircut the other day. I've been going back and forth on whether to get her one. A certain control-freak grandmother was lobbying for it, and I didn't think it seemed necessary. But now she's sleeping with blankets, and tussling with them all night leaves her looking quite scary. Also, because the back of her hair started growing before the front, we were approaching mullet territory. Time to intervene.
So I took her to Cheryl, my stylist. I've heard horror stories about Cartoon Cuts. If I wanted Harper to have a bowl cut, I'd hand her over to Sean. (He says he'd actually just 
give her a buzz cut.) Cheryl's good people. She's from Massachusetts, so I knew she could put Harper at ease by talking about Manny. But Harper didn't need to be put at ease. She did fine. She mostly wanted to see what Cheryl was doing, so every time Cheryl was about to snip, Harper turned around. And she liked staring at herself in the big mirror, the little narcissist.
Cheryl gave Harper a bob. Sean's all full of himself because last week he suggested a bob would look best, and then Cheryl came up with that without any prompting from us. (I have not mentioned to Mr. GQ Style that this does nothing to quell the gay rumors.) But he's right; she does look pretty cute in her curly bob. And I'm sad about it. I had no problem with her getting a haircut -- I hear some moms weep through them -- but now I see how grown up she looks and I'm a little blue. Where has my little baby gone? Maybe I should have asked myself that when she called Sean a "pantload" two weeks ago, but I'm asking myself that now.
