After dinner we gave him his first haircut. It was getting a little business-up-front and party-in-the-back. When pregnant I hoped he would have crazy wild curly hair (I love how little boys look with crazy hair), but I figured the odds of that were pretty low. This is a family of straight, thinnish, anti-wild hair, which means we all need to keep it pretty short or it just hangs listlessly down our faces like a drab curtain.
So Eric stuck the 5/8 inch guide on the razor, and I zipped away the baby's lovely hair. I didn't touch the front or the Alfalfa spikes up top; I love those.
He's 11 months old today, he eats pretty much everything we do, and he's sporting a his first haircut. Every time I look at him I try to burn his image into my brain so I can carry it with me even when he's a grown man. It's hard though; I already can't remember him as a newborn, and the only baby images of Hannah that I can conjure are those that are photographs, but a memory of a photograph isn't at all the same things a memory of real life...It's all so fleeting.
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