"The barber shop."
"What's the barber going to do?"
"Cut my hair."
It would be the first time. By the hour we left the house for Sulimay's Hair Design today, Lynne's campaign of pro-scissor propaganda had reached full saturation. Noah, who has greeted his parents' attempts at haircuttery with rage and perpetual motion, was practically begging to hop up in a barber chair.
It was high time.
BEFORE
He joined the line in third position, and watched a couple old-timers get the treatment first. Sitting in a plain old regular chair was no fun, so presently we went outside to jump off paving stones for a spell. The suggestion of a lollipop got his legs churning back toward Jim, who was just finishing up his last customer.
SCISSORS OUT
Not a tear, not a complaint. There was a brief "Uppie daddy" request during a pause, but he remained stoic even when the electric clippers came out for some around-the-ear work. A polite "thank you" at the end, and then we were back in the car, where he pitched the idea of ice cream for lunch. "I'm itchy," he said. Instead we had cheddar, avocado, hummus and bread.
AFTER
