There hasn’t been a day since Jackson was born that he hasn’t been called a girl–despite wearing all blue and despite me telling people that he is a boy. It goes like this every. single. time: Fellow Harris Teeter grocery shopper: “She’s beautiful.” Me: “Oh, it’s actually a boy, but thanks” And then, as if I’m in denial about my own child’s gender, the response is always, “well, she’s just adorable.” I smile, knowing that my frustration is better spent on the incompetency of the deli meat counter.
The goal was to wait until he was a year old for his first hair cut. Despite him being called a girl. Despite the mullet. Despite the fact that his view of the world was limited to seeing his own bangs. Despite needing anti-frizz products after being outside for 30 seconds of our city’s raging humidity.
But on a sad, sad day this past Saturday, I caved. Ninety seconds was all it took. Bye bye mullet. Bye bye bangs. Bye bye baby Jackson.
I will admit that, unlike getting to the end of a bag of white cheddar popcorn, it’s not all bad. Now I can see his beautiful eyes and his too-cute smile, and there is remarkably less hair for smashed avocado to get stuck in. His hair will grow back, the number of times he is called a she will diminish (hopefully before he is potty-trained and using public bathrooms in this state), and it likely won’t be the last thing I cave on.