The other day Nathan made a joke about cutting Neeps's hair, and I... may have got a little panicky and snapped "Don't you dare!"
Which sort of took me aback. I had no idea I has such strong feelings about my son's hair, of all things. But apparently I do. So.
I'm not sure why, exactly, but it's probably tied up in not wanting to change his physical perfection in any way. Which is, of course, ludicrous, because I trim his little razor nails on the regular.
I'm wondering when it will feel okay to me to cut his hair. Certainly not before he's walking. Probably not before he's one. Maybe not even until he's closer to two, if he ends up with particularly sweet baby curls.
Aw heck, let's call it 40.
(I am kidding. Totally kidding.)
I'm hoping I'll know when it's time. I'm hoping that the weird possessiveness doesn't warp my sense of what's actually cute and keeps him in the wispies long after he should have been shorn like an adorable little lamb. I guess I'll just have to rely on Nathan to gently inform me if I cross over from appropriately protective into Norma Bates.
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