My mother taught me better...

Mum would be appalled at how remiss I've been. I have a big apology to make to three excellent bloggers, who out of the goodness of their hearts all separately awarded me the'Good Blog Chat Award'. Ladies, I don't know what I was thinking not to acknowledge this is in a post before now; having a sit down for a good chat with a cup of tea and a mate is something I don't get to do enough of, so the last thing I should be doing is passing up the opportunity when it comes my way.

Lady Thinker
A Mother's Place is in the Wrong
and Carolyn at Laughing Alone in the Dark

Thankyou all, for this:

And if were to be able to sit down and have nice cup of tea right now, I would probably be bending your ears about taking the Boys for a haircut this afternoon...

The Boys have a 'history' with haircuts. I suppose that really you might call it 'form'. Until Boy #1 was a year old, we never needed to bother with them. Well, that's not quite true. If either of his grandmothers, or indeed my Husband were asked, they would no doubt say that Boy#1's first haircut was well over-due by the time I finally got round to it. But I didn't mind the slightly girlish whisps and tufts, and it just seemed... well, you know. Too soon. But finally the day came when I could put it off no longer. And I was right to wait, because let me tell you, we had not been missing out on any joyous experience.

Everything got covered in hair. Boy #1. Me (or Husband, who I must admit also took on the burden when possible, dragging his son across the road to the Thai barbers when he could). The hairdresser. And indeed, any poor unfortunate who happened to be sitting in the next seat having their hair cut.

We persevered with that barbers for around a year, reasoning that since it was only over the road, we had a much shorter distance to carry a sobbing boy home at the end of the bitterest cut, but finally (when they started getting unaccountably booked up and shutting early for lunch), were forced to find another innocent victim.

Our next hit was a toy shop / children's hair dressers nearby. The first time we took him it wasn't so bad; he was distracted by all the shiny pretty things on the shelves around him, and the enormous model T-Rex we were waving in his direction as a bribe for good behaviour, but things went rapidly downhill from there. After frequenting them for around a year, I saw the woman's face drop when I walked through the door with him and realised we had to move on - again. I quite liked her - and couldn't continue the torture...

So, we tried Trotters on High St Kensington. Amazingly enough, Boy #1 approved. They had fish to watch, a toy train (not moving, I hasten to add) to ride in, and even purchase / bribery opportunities situated all around. The winner for him though was the lollipop he was handed at the end. Unsurprisingly, as he is a child of mine, the chocolate worked and Boy #1 was an instant fan. Personally though I think it was a lot more to do with his age by this time (around 3 1/2), and less to do with the surroundings. Which might explain why Boy #2 - now aged 1 and in need of his first haircut - proved a harder nut to crack.

He twisted. He turned. He tried to throw himself from the high chair. He squealed and yelped and cringed in abject terror every time the nice lady with the scissors came anywhere near him. And, as with his brother before him, he scattered fine baby hair over everyone and everything within a 3 metre radius. (Anticipating a certain level of 'hairage' I had brought a replacement t-shirt for him along - but not one for myself. Man, baby hair is itchy when it gets inside your bra cup...)

Thankfully, we have moved on. Boy #2 is now over 2. He doesn't do the screaming and the crying anymore (at least, not at the hairdressers). He still regards the hairdresser with pouty suspicion everytime she comes near him with those scissors, but he tolerates the procedure and proves suprisingly easy to distract with a Thomas the Tank Engine book. He even manages to say his version of 'thankyou' when handed the chocolate coin at the end.

And Boy #1? He is quite the little gentleman. He sits calmly in his chair. He chats with the (invariably attractive) young lady attending him. He moves his head as requested, and watches the fish in the big tank in front of him when he has to look up, commenting on colours, shapes, and deliberates on which of them might be related to sharks. ('All of them', I tell him. It makes for a longer conversation...)

Yes, my angels are both a lot better behaved at the hairdressers these days. A lot.


So tell me. How come I have still come home with hair clippings in my bra?