Before.
It was a battle. An arduous, painful, heart-wrenching battle. I got my son's haircut. He had a glorious mop, and now he looks like a boy. A beautiful boy, but not a toddler, and I am sad. He aged a couple of years that day...
We had gotten his hair cut many times; he had become accustomed to it, and even looked forward to it due to the lollypop he receives when it is finished. However, this time we were cutting it short, which called for the use of clippers. Which then sent my son into a frenzy - tears, flailing limbs, shrieks... It literally took both my husband and I to hold him down so that the hairstylist could finish the job. It took an hour. He was exhausted. We were exhausted. Charlie, his stylist, was exhausted. As were were leaving, and Jude had happily picked out an orange sucker my husband said, "Tell Charlie thank you; say 'See you next time'"... now, I can understand hoping we don't come back to repeat the debacle, but she actually made a face. At least try to hide it, Charlie.
Oh, how quickly they grow.
