Hair today, gone tomorrow
I was comparing notes with an online
poker friend the other
day. Her baby Beth is about a year old and is in the 95th percentile
for height and weight.
Jasper continues to be lean and mean (well, lean anyway – he’s far from mean, unless there are elements of society that find constant smiles and drool in some way threatening). We were trying to come up with British celebrities that our children remind us of.
Her baby looks like Les Dawson; hardly a flattering comparison, given that he’s famous for being a foul-mouthed, hard-drinking and hard-smoking, fat racist pig ‘comedian’.
Jasper is very cute, but his baby hair was growing across his head in the classic 50s combover many of you will remember your grandfather using to ‘hide’ his bald patch. 1966 England soccer world cup-winning star Sir Bobby Charlton was the best match I could find. Better than Les Dawson, but only just.
Something had to be done. Undeterred by horror stories of my mother cutting my hair (she was Loreal trained, but her thinning scissors were unsharpened for at least a decade of agonisingly painful attempts to layer my mop), Carolina put her artistic eye to work on our firstborn. She waited until I was out, just in case I tried to intervene in the name of mercy.
When I returned home, JD’s hair had been remarkably transformed. I almost didn’t recognise him. He now has a balanced look (ironic, given that he can’t balance without mechanical assistance), with a neat patch of hair front and centre and no more combover.
My in-laws saw him for the first time in a month on Sunday (Jasper still has more hair than his uncle Conrad), and the family’s reaction was favourable.
Our little man is beginning to look less like a newborn and more like a, well, little man. Of course, in our eyes he’d be cute no matter what happens to his crazy, mad professor hair. Sleep well.
