Cutting the Crazy Mullet

To be three-and-a-half months old and so follicle-ly endowed. I’m talking about hair, and lots of it. Max was born with a stylish faux hawk (really), and his hair had natural highlights that women shell out a good hundred for at the salon. It was blonde in various shades…and then the new grew in as the old faded, so Max really didn’t suffer from any hair hardship at all while his  new ‘do emerged.

In fact, the hair kept growing…and growing. It’s thick (lucky guy), and now looks like a strawberry blessed his noggin with a shot of delicious red that’s just enough to look like a sunset. He’s going to make a lot of girls jealous, that guy.

But the ‘do needed a little trim—not the formal “first hair cut” (insert trumpet sounds). Just a little cleanup job. Because as strawberry and full and as well endowed as his head of hair was, he was sporting a mullet. That’s all there was to it.

Meanwhile, after a four-month salon fast, my own mop had grown into a motley sight. I’ve got naturally big hair that overpowered a once-sleek cut that I decided to ditch along with my skinny jeans and caffeine. (So far, no losses suffered.) The big is back, but it needed taming, so Max and I made a visit to Crazy Mullets in Lakewood. Fortunately, the little guy had his own crazy morning and had lapsed into a serious nap that allowed me to take care of business (ie. shampoo, cut, style).

As he slept soundly in his carseat carrier, I knew removing him was practically illegal. But I did. And he sat on my lap all Humpedy Dumpedy in a happy post-sleep haze. Our stylist carefully snipped the fringe creeping down his neck and threatening to form a rogue mullet. (No offense to mullet aficionados…it just isn’t Max’s look.)

Aha. Success. Tiny clippings were collected in a Ziplock. (Remember, this isn’t the first official haircut – I think of it as a mere prelude to the real deal, which will surely involve gel, some styling and a coo of appreciation from Mr. Max.)

Mom and Max departed the salon feeling better about life. (Or, at least mom did.)

The ordeal called for celebration with a bottle. (Max, mine is off limits until you’re 21, kid.)