fro no mo'

Today our little man got a haircut. With visions of every kid haircut gone bad, I was opposed to the idea at first. And truthfully, I was growing quite fond of his white-man's afro growing larger by the day. But time and again I found myself pushing hair out of the poor kid's eyes, so I finally caved.

We brought him to this Kid's Hair place. I was told it was like a three-ring circus entertaining kids as they sat happily in chairs receiving their new dos. But Raisin wasn't falling for their cheap entertainment tricks. Despite the Barney video playing inches from his face, he clutched on to Ed as soon as he was placed into the chair. The hairdresser didn't waste any time and immediately started spraying and snipping as he cried.



Ed and I switched places so he could capture the happy moment on video. That's when Barney, bless his little purple dinosaur heart, pulled out the big guns and began singing an obnoxious song about god knows what, but its choreography included beachballs -- and that's all that mattered to my little boy. The tears began to soften and as if on his last breath, he began to whisper, "ball...ball..."



Unfortunately (or fortunately), every Barney song must come to an end. So did the ball song. Luckily, at that point, the haircut was just about complete. And little e was back to his usual self playing with the germed up toys in the waiting area as we killed some time to let his hair dry (sparing him any further trauma by blowdrying).