“Isn’t it about time he got his hair cut?” the Viking enquires gingerly.
Head of hair – exhibit A. Now tell me why this man is puzzled when I mete out the usual corporal punishment and thwack him soundly before snorting imperiously, “What nonsense!”
Yes, am v. classy like that.
I am a slave to these curls. Wispy, brown curls that are perfectly springy and soft as down. They are as nuts as the baby endowed with them and they live a life that is entirely their own with the discreet assistance of some Loreal curl cream. (Seriously people, what were the odds that I wouldn’t? Hopefully, the vanity entered his blood in utero.)
I’m the gluesniffer inhaling Curlytop – the mashed banana, strawberry yoghurt, baby shampoo scent of him and drowning happily, just a little.
These curls are all thats left of the baby before the full-blown toddler takes over with strong, stubby arms and legs, a confident stride, a startling smile and a mouth full of words masquerading as sentences.
So smitten am I that I am holding on for dear life, but unfortunately so is that cold he’s had for a month.
This misanthropic bastard has me beat.
The drive to the hairdressers had me feeling like Delilah preparing to shaft Samson.
Being at the hairdressers was a Rudaali convention. Armaan not only let out a mighty wail – he babbled furiously through his tears. I think I made out the part where he wailed, “You’re killing the mojo, yo.”
Je comprends, mon cheri.
And here’s what we got after the river of tears was mopped up and a good nights sleep was had. Luckily, the boy has the memory of a gnat.
Curlytop all gone. No longer the Child With Ambiguous Gender, but a little boy. A wicked little boy with short hair – shorn of the dancing curls of a girl. The mothers heart is just a wee bit achy.
Edited to add: The first commenter that encourages me to reactivate the uterus and have a girl will be my freshly-appointed surrogate mother. I kid you not. Hey, whats good enough for Sarah Jessica Parker is plenty good enough for me!