Keston got his first haircut the other day at Great Clips before I got my thatch whacked down to the correct summertime length. His hair had been growing over his ears and down his neck in a rather willy-nilly way, so we decided a quick evening-up would do him a ton of good and probably keep him from itching his ears a lot. It turns out, he was a really good kid through it all! The stylist was very patient and quick and he really didn’t care but preferred to generally give his Mum some smiles as she snapped pictures of him during the procedure. At the end, they even gave us a little “My First Haircut” card and envelope with his hair in it. Aren’t we a funny species, saving things like hair? You never see anyone save their first toenail clippings, but we’ll keep the hair by golly.
Doesn’t my cape look lovely?
All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.
Just a bit off the side, please — and watch those ears! I need those!
WHOA — that feels funny!
Ah, getting that pesky hair off my ears is wonderful.
What…in the heck…are you doing to me???
Daddy had to hold my head a bit (I kept turning to see the action) so the stylist didn’t accidentally remove a cheek or something.
Today I left a comment on Love Is Blonde that I thought would make a good blog entry, if nothing else because it’d engage my readers’ thoughts, and that’s always fun to watch.
Secondly, I wanted to comment on the phenomenon of birthdays. It’s funny — every year goes by and still a part of me wants it to be a day that’s somehow different from all the other ones, but the older I get the less remarkable they are. Is that the case with everyone — do we always want the day to be special, even if it isn’t?
I rather think it’s silly of us to expect our birthdays to be anything of note, but there’s some small kernel inside me somewhere that does. I’m not sure where that comes from — childhood expectations? Flirtatious hopes for something miraculous? I don’t know.
I don’t even mention my birthday anymore when it comes for fear that I’ll be perceived as being an ass and self-centered. (not that I’m calling you an ass, Janet, this is just how I feel) The question is, how important are birthdays anyway? How should we feel about them, really? Does it matter once you’re ancient like me? (30)
Aren’t we a funny species in what we do, celebrating the day we are born but ignoring the date of conception; getting all tied up about when we get married but not the date when we met someone. Who picked these dates in the first place as being notable?
So, dear reader, your thoughts? And for the record, it is nowhere near my own date of birth, so this is not a subtle plea for recognition. It is, very much, something that’s always plagued my thoughts.
