orichalcum

I took Mac to get a haircut this morning. I had been a bit nervous about this, because the last time, he squirmed and whined and I had to basically hold him down in the chair by force while the stylist went to work. So this time, I built it up with talking about how his Dad had just gotten a haircut, and how he'd get to sit in one of the special chairs (he chose the John Deere tractor, ultimately) and watch Dora, and so forth.

We get there; he's clearly a bit unhappy about water being spritzed on him and hair falling all around him, but puts up with it very calmly, focused on driving his tractor. He gets a very nice 21st century layered haircut which eliminates the Dickensian street urchin look he was sporting (helped by his 18th century face). I pay while he rides the giant Thomas the Tank Engine around the waiting room, and we walk out and get back in the car.

From the back seat, I hear, "Mommy, I want haircut! I want to try it again!"

Explaining that this is not a frequently repeated experience, now that took the rest of the drive to school.