Hairs Looking at You, Kid

hands-up        me

So…  it’s not the most  professional job ever… but something had to be done about the Little Lord Fauntleroy / Curly Locks hybrid look. Harry is a pretty child (his mother staunchly asserts) and was in danger (his father thought) of shortly being mistaken for a girl.


The curls weren’t bothering me as such, but the fuzzy, knotted, split-end ‘fro on the back on his head needed attention, which necessitated an overall shortening. The two curls above either ear were fabulous though, and I mourn them.




He now looks a very grown up young man indeed –


entirely appropriate, however, for a chap who can totally stack his duplo like a young Frank Lloyd Wright.



His layers (I think Americans may call them… bangs? We call bangs bloody large explosions, generally, but let’s not get sidetracked) are noticeably uneven on either side, because the chances of his sitting still for even a single snip were somewhere between fat and none – so I surreptitiously attacked him with scissors while he was spark-out on his letter cushions one naptime. I attempted to trim him more levelly after he awoke, but he was swatting at the ferociously sharp scissors like they were a particularly pesky bluebottle, so I desisted.


The cushions that he is clinging to like ship-wreckage, incidentally, are supposed to read HARRY, but even after 17 months I have only managed HA. Go me!

The reason he was a sufficient number of fathoms deep enough to let me wield scissors around his earholes, was that the little blighter has not been sleeping at night.  He either sleeps straight through without a murmur (for reasons we would GIVE GOLD to understand) or spends long hours emitting a choice selection of ear-splitting and increasingly hoarse ululations, interspersed with the shocking thuds of his previously mentioned headbangs. I wouldn’t actually mind if all he wanted was to sleep in our bed – but whenever we give in and bring him in with us, after 5 minutes he’s rampaging around the bed like a demented thing, treading heavily on both primary and secondary genitalia, and dispensing liberal amounts of unerring wild arm-swings and kicks to the face, even in the pitch-dark. Eventually, Hubby loses his rag and stuffs him – protesting! – back in his grobag, and transports him unceremoniously back to his cot. Where he screams for another hour before John ends up hauling him downstairs to the recliner to be rocked to sleep; and an hour later the cycle of attrition begins over again.

4am is not the best time to thrash out a future management plan for this sort of thing – the conversation does tend towards sounding suspiciously like an enumeration of your spouse’s baby-handling mistakes – however, changes have been decided upon. Harry was not the lucky recipient of a boob this morning, much to his puzzlement and frustration. He had cuddles instead (which he scorned) and was given some children’s TV to watch (grudging acceptance). Only when completely distracted by Teletubbies was he summoned to the boob – a call he responded to with alacrity, his legs almost wheel-spinning, cartoon fashion. So, hopefully we will break the wakey, wakey/ immediate warm boob connection – while also enabling me to do away with this feed altogether soon.

This evening, I fed him downstairs before handing him over to Hubby for his bath. We both read him a story, then John rocked him for a little while in the dark. He went into his cot awake, rather than 95% comatose on boob, and had a brief grizzle before conking out. He’s mithered on and off since 10.30pm, but his heart hasn’t been in it. 3am is when he usually kicks off properly – but we shall stand firm, shoulder to shoulder against the menace of child tyranny!

Actually, I shall probably get stressed and cry, but it has to be done. We need our beauty sleep.

And, lastly, sticking on the topic of beauty – everyone seems to be digging out their teenage horror pics lately! I have none of my absolute screamers to hand, as Mum is guarding them… but I promise they are worse than any other blogger’s I have seen to date. So bad, in fact, I don’t think I’m actually brave enough to post ’em. I shall see. Hubby abstracted and hid the one of me with inexplicable hair, wearing a bandana, W. Axl Rose-style, posing with my acoustic guitar (I didn’t own an electric one to pose with at the time… I’m blushing just TYPING this, FFS!), in order to embarrass me with… but he’s actually hidden it so well, he’s lost it, thank the Lord. I do have this one though, in which you get a clue about where my hair is headed for in a couple of years. Enjoy!


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