Haircuts

Last night the Viking gave our two boys haircuts. It’s not an easy feat, let me tell you. We chuck them in their highchairs and let them watch whatever god awful show they want while Brian does his utmost not to snip an ear, or buzz off the wrong chunk while they duck and squirm and generally dislike the whole process. In fact, Brian announced at dinner that it was haircut night and Shepherd politely stated in no uncertain terms “No, thank you Daddy” in his raspy little voice.

By the time he’s done, Brian’s back hurts from bending over those tiny highchairs, and he’s sweating from the stress of it all and he’s got wispy little hairs all over him. It’s a labor of love.

I was sitting on the couch observing this whole process, and I noticed that I have absolutely no hand in the haircuts other than offering moral support and my phone to for the boys to watch shows. The thought of haircuts only briefly crosses my mind enough to mention that they might need haircuts soon, and then Brian takes it from there. Haircuts aren’t on my radar.

It occurred to me that haircuts aren’t a part of my mental load. I don’t even think about them. I don’t carry that responsibility, Brian does. I immediately felt so thankful. If I had to schedule or — god forbid — actually cut their hair that would be so incredibly overwhelming to me, but I have a partner who just does that because it needs to be done.

I glad, because our kids would look a lot different if I was in charge of haircuts.