Snip. Snip.

Of all the moments to document with the camera, I didn't photograph Miles' first haircut.  I couldn't; there weren't enough arms in the house.  And I certainly couldn't entrust the dogs to cut in a straight line.  Sadly, they might have done a better job than me, aka Mommy Scissorhands.  There was no nicking or nipping, but one ear gets a lot more air than the other one.  

The snipping happened late yesterday afternoon.  We started on the front porch but were chased away by a sudden rainstorm.  The session ended in the bathroom, with Jesse holding Miles in a pretzel lock, and me, twisted in the opposite direction, doing by best to freehand a bowl cut.  

When tussled, his new 'do isn't bad.  It's one of those styles that requires "product."  In this case, "product" is either spray-in de-tangler or water droplets.  And my souvenir of the experience, a sandwich baggie with a few tiny tendrils which are splayed out in a static cling frenzy.  I don't even have a large lock which to tie a satin blue ribbon around; isn't that the tradition?  The best snips were caught in the rainy breeze and sent to pad some lucky bird's nest.  I hope that bird appreciates the 14 months of tender shampooing, combing, and brushing his new siding received prior to its delivery.

Miles is looking older.  Now that he got the hair cut, guess he's off to get a job.  Luckily, we know that he's going to be a donut tycoon.  Remember the shirt prediction?  If only those shirts came in my size; I could use a little career direction right about now... obviously, we can rule out baby hair stylist.  You'll see why soon enough.