Yesterday, Erik got his annual haircut. Well, it was bi-annual. He figures it has been two years since he last sat in a chair near some scissors. I love Erik's hair long. Period. End of story. I think he looks like the grandson of Willie Nelson or the son of Jeff Goodby.
In the past, there has been no happiness after the cut. The problem he surmises came from the addition of bangs and resulted in what I referred to as a boy bob. Ugh. I loathed this cut so much I ofter requested that he not get it cut at all. Then there was the brief foray into really short hair. This involved a pair of sheers and a few beers. One forth of July, he actually let me shave his head. And that was FUN! But we both feel like I became some sort of modern day Delilah and have since sworn off the buzz, cut only.
We were considering a Keith Urban cut when I held up a recent People magazine, only to have Lonah call a mullet. Really? A mullet?! Hear that, Nicole?
So yesterday, I attempted to make eye contact with the stylist to hold up a small amount of space between my two fingers and mime the symbol for just a wee, small, tiny, little bit. Later, Erik told me that he said to the hairdresser: Don't pay any attention to that lady. Today, he no longer has the longest hair in the family, but we are all pleased with the results.
Here is before picture that when I saw it my first thought was, we're all hair and brown eyes.