I think we were probably doing dishes, reflecting on the day, recapping ball games. That's when we noticed the house was quiet...
The elder little was upstairs working on his arcade. It is the smaller little who sometimes...disappears.
"Where are you?"
We both walked the first floor, only to find this about a minute into our search...
"GRANT! WHERE ARE YOU?"
We turned the corner into the powder room to find him with orange safety scissors.
Up against more of his "yellow" hair!
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
He offered, "I'm cutting my hair.* Reid says I look like a 'goyl'..."
*Now, for your frame of reference, it is helpful to note that this blonde hair has been the source of many conversations over the past couple years. I'm on team "let's not cut it -- he has curls;" my husband...well, opposes that team, and often asks, "Can you please just cut his hair? It's time..." I resist. Every. Single. Time.
I surveyed the damage -- large chunk of bangs, missing; even larger chunk of hair from his left side, missing. Noticeably.
*Until this time...
"Tomorrow we'll get a hair cut after church. This style needs some tweaking."
Together we shuffled over the living room carpet and also the wood floors to pick up the pieces. My mind imagined the smaller little with one 'little boy cut.'
This morning, we tried to comb straggly strands of wispy blonde hair over the offending sections. The right side didn't hide the second bout with the safety scissors quite as well as we'd hoped.
So, as promised, after church we went for the long-awaited haircut.
The pieces fell to the floor, first large...and then small. His 'do, shaped, in a way that only someone who truly knows how to cut hair, can.
"One little boy cut," Abigail proclaimed. She cleaned up his neck, preened his risky sections, and added, "I texturized it...you know, so it all blends in the best it can."
"I appreciate that. You are really good at what you do. Thank you."
We lifted the older-looking little boy from the car chair and stepped over the million little pieces toward the door. Abigail began sweeping them into a pile.
A few minutes later, inside the car, Grant celebrated. "Mommy, I like my hair."
"I do, too, Mr. Moo..."
Very grown up.