Haircuts

Zippy and I had been thinking Baba needed a haircut for a while. But its so hit and miss with that one - he either screams the entire time or is as good as gold, so we put off the hair cut as long as possible (I trim the back when it starts looking mulletish - no child (or husband) of mine is leaving the house with a mullet).

Last Saturday, out of the blue, Baba announced he wanted Mrs. Mooker (he has taken to calling my sister Mrs. Mooker and nothing else) to cut his hair. I called up Mrs. Mooker and told her to bring her clippers.

After a few minutes, Baba decided he no longer wanted Mrs. Mooker to cut his hair. I asked if Pa could cut his hair. He said no. I asked if Ma could cut his hair. He said no. I asked if Mom or Dad or Mr. Mooker or Pudgie (my parent's dog) could cut his hair. He said no to all of the above.

I asked who could cut his hair.

He thought for a while and then said Harvard Zosh.

In the end, he settled for Mrs. Mooker (who's haircutting name is Dalia, by the way. I think she's adopted).

Baldy Ole Boy

I have always loved little boys with short, short hair cuts. There is something so satisfying about rubbing my hand on their bald little heads.




So today, we brought Baba into the local chain hair cutting place and said, "Shave 'em!" A enormous battle ensued, but the clippers won.





And now, "Hair gone!" And Baba has been rubbing his bald little head all day.





Zippy and I have been calling him: Baldy Ole Boy, Uncle Fester, Cue ball, Cancer Patient, etc and trying to adjust to our baby, who was born with massive amounts of dark brown hair, being bald.