The Toddler is a fairly amiable little chap. Most of the time he is placid, content and happily follows behind his siblings with his grubby rag in his hand.
However, the one thing he just can’t abide is The Haircut. A year ago, he happily sat on my lap, having his baby curls snipped for the album. When his new Toddler hair began growing ready for the next cut, he dug his heels in and refused to let a pair of scissors anywhere near his small auburn head. Despite knowing our lovely hairdresser Sally well, he simply refused to cooperate. Sally quite sensibly suggested we leave it for a while so as not to traumatise the poor little mite. However, as his mother I was perfectly happy to pin him to my lap, hold his head in my hands and shout, “Cut”.
As the hair gradually grew and he began looking up from under his fringe, a friend suggested we try cutting his hair at home. She thought he would be less worried in a familiar environment, with Balamory to distract him. We duly tried this, but predictably he began screaming once he saw the scissors and even Josie Jump couldn’t distract him while I made a desperate attempt to snip at a side burn. It continued to grow, but not in a small, cool surfer kind of way – more like small thin rat’s tails falling around his neck. People began to make comments such as, “How sweet,” while his Granny, never one for holding back, said, “When are you going to cut that dreadful hair?” I was at my wits end, so Granny, who is often quick to remind me that children only behave badly with their parents, stepped into the frame and said she would take him. An hour later, she returned red-faced and fairly dishevelled, handed me the Toddler and said, “I need a drink.”
Finally, I was left with my last option. As night fell and The Toddler drifted into his golden land of slumbers, I tiptoed into his room with my rather curved edge nail scissors. I set to work on one side under the dim light of the landing, and then gently turned his head to start on the other. He stirred and murmured, “No,” sleepily, at which point I ducked down beneath the bed, so as not to wake him. As I edged back up, he sat up and stared at me. It was all over for one night at least. The next night, I was back with my scissors to do the other side. Job done. He now has probably the worst haircut in Dorset, with long and short strands scattered across his small head. I am just utterly relieved that we have at least a month or so before I have to embark once more on my midnight haircuts.
