When the Littlest Got a Haircut

The Littlest's hair is of the wispy, fine, straight variety. He used to look like this:

hi, sweet baby hair

I decided that I needed some professional help. I took him to the salon thinking I'd get it shaped up; wispy ends and long bangs hiding his beautiful blues, trimmed.

The hairstylist was a youngish woman, by youngish I mean less than 40, so younger than me.
I am not really a good judge of age though because I don't see myself in the true version of reality.
So.Youngish. Mid-30s.With the most gorgeous hair I've ever seen. It was thick, but not too thick. Long past her shoulders and straight, straight.

But not the way my, damn you genetics!!, hair looked the few times I've straightened it.
(Think wig or Nancy Grace.)

Hers looked healthy, like a 1000+ thread count Egyptian sheet of hair.

'Egyptian sheet has the perfect job for that hair', I thought. 'She must really know her stuff and I will entrust my Littlest's downy head of farine locks to her'.
I put him into the big chair, coaxed him to hold his head still and hoped for the best.

Egyptian sheet hair was brutal. I guess when your own hair is so perfect you have little patience for the likes of chick fur.

She, with scissors in one hand, comb in another, began to tut, harumph, and pfft. I could feel the 'incroyable!' as she combed through his mini-dreadlocks.
She pointed out one, two, three, four callicks, disgusted. The final number was to high to share. Apparently his entire head of hair is one big swirling, tornado.

As the number grew, so did her shoulder shrugging and pfffting.
It was like I was asking Padma to eat at McDo or Carla to date a plumber. Egyptian sheet hair had clearly never seen anything like the Littlest's locks.

'There is nothing I can do!', she decreed. 'Rien!'

Bye-bye went the scissors; out came the shears.

Little by little the baby chick hair flew away. It covered the floor, my coat, her perfect black sweater and fashionable high-heeled boots. With each sweep of the shears she pointed out another callick, as if insulted. 'La! la! LA!', harumph. Really. How could I expect her to work like this?

My Baby turned into a little boy before my eyes. A shorn, white fluff, swirl of hair was all that was left on his sweet, but very big, very square head.
'Il est un vrai garcon. It's better.', Egyptian sheet hair declared.

And now he looks like this:

you can see the 'cowlicks' from here!