The day finally came. My shaggy-haired two year old has joined the world of conformists everywhere. He has traded in his Albert Einstein fly-away locks for a more appropriate hairstyle.

The Before Shot. Maybe just a little shaggy

Sadly, I was the hold out. I was the one who was in denial about just how overgrown The Baby’s hair had become. You know things have gone too far when your toddler is begging—that’s right, begging—for a haircut. The point is only made more clear when he actually climbs willingly into the chair at the salon.

Since we were going I decided to make a group outing of it. The Oldest and The Middle were both in need of haircuts as well so I made an appointment for all three. It was The Baby’s first haircut (I know, I know…) so I was very meticulous in how everything would happen. I had him watch the brothers first so that he would know there was nothing to be afraid of (I’m sure I read that in some parenting magazine when I was waiting for my yearly with nothing better to do!).

Anyway, all of my attempts at a cautious approach weren’t even necessary. The kiddo climbs right up in the chair, his brothers stood nearby and held his hands (a definite awww-how-sweet moment!) and the only tears that were spilled were mine as I watched the butcher hairstylist prepare to cut the locks from the head of my blessed baby.

I sidled up next to her like a cop at a crime scene and murmured, “I’m gonna need one of those locks of hair.”

“Don’t worry,” she told me, “I’ll put a lock of it onto a certificate before you leave.”

The Baby was very proud of his new haircut and posed for several photos before being led by the brothers to the toy drawer.

The Middle stood there with his hands deep in his pockets, looking guilty.

“What are you up to?” I asked.

He pulled out his hand to show me a tuft of blond. “I kept some of my hair,” he giggled.

“What are you gonna do with that?”

A little boy with a sensible haircut, now he just needs a sensible career!

“I’m gonna put it in my collection,” he answered.

“You don’t need to keep hair,” I told him.

“Why?”

“It’s disgusting,” I said as I ushered him to the front door.

“Ma’am,” the butcher hairstylist called as we walked out the door. “Don’t forget the certificate for his first haircut.” She handed me the certificate and…

“Oh, my God,” I gushed as tears formed under my lids, “look at that precious little locket of hair!” (Don’t judge me!)