It’s happening. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The boys got haircuts. It was the long-overdue haircut. The summer haircut. The camp haircut. The graduation haircut.
They always fight over who goes first. We do coin tosses. I have a coin toss app that they think is the coolest invention ever. It doesn’t matter. We do “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,” which they love because I say it super fast and poke their bellies throughout. Still, they battle.
I’ll never understand why they don’t want to go first.
“You’ll get it over with,” I beg.
“You’ll get a lollipop first,” I plead.
At the last haircut, Dylan reluctantly volunteered to go first. “Okay,” he said like Eeyore. “I’ll do it.” Eeeey-oooore. It was a very grown-up thing to do, and I thanked him.
This time, Riley surprises me. He volunteers to go first. No coin toss. No “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” No begging. No pleading.
He climbs into the chair and onto the booster seat and our hairdresser says, “You’re going first today?”
He nods. No words.
Then she looks at Riley through the mirror and says, “I remember when all you did was cry through these haircuts.” She’s been cutting my boys’ hair since Riley was about a year and a half old.
“I’ll never forget those haircuts,” I say laughing. Dear God, those haircuts! They were Miserable. Dylan, my sensory kid, refused wear the robe, was terrified of the clippers, and couldn’t tolerate the sound of the hair dryer. It was a nightmare. Riley was less sensory-sensitive, but no better. He wouldn’t sit in the chair unless he had a lollipop in his hand, which would inevitably end up covered in hair. Then, he would cry-scream until he was handed a new, hair-free lollipop. Over and over again.
“Do you remember the lollipops?” I ask her. “The only way to get him to sit without crying was to give him one after another. I brought them from home because I felt so bad that he was wasting all of yours! The memory of those haircuts will stay with me forever,” I say jokingly.
These days, I can actually read a magazine during their haircuts. I can go to the bathroom by myself. They can go to the bathroom by themselves.
When Riley’s cut is done, she brushes his neck and says adoringly, “He has the longest hair on his neck!”
“I know,” I say looking up from Cosmopolitan magazine. “It’s all over his back, too. He’s like a fuzzy, little bear.”
“My daughter was fuzzy like that when she was young,” she says nostalgically. Then she tells me her daughter is taller than her now.
“Someday, these little guys will soar over me,” I say with a pout. “Their school goes through the sixth grade this year and some of those middle school boys are huge! They have facial hair!” I say with a giggle because I can’t imagine my boys ever going through puberty.
Riley climbs down from the chair and Dylan takes his place. First, though, she removes the booster seat. He doesn’t need it anymore.
Instead of asking for a lollipop, Riley says to me, “Can I play with your phone?”
When Dylan’s cut is finished, he heads straight for the door. “Don’t you guys want lollipops?” I ask thinking that as long as they want lollipops then they’re still my baby boys. They each take one. We say thank you and goodbye, walk out the door, and cross the street to the car. No one holds my hand despite my reaching.
It’s happening. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
They’re growing up.
Three years old.
Seven years old.
Moving up to 2nd grade!
Two years old.
Five years old.
Happy Pre-K graduation, my fuzzy, little bear.
The Runaway Mama by Jen Gregory 