When E brought hers home we hung it in her bedroom where it still hangs today:
And when L brought hers home we hung it in her bedroom where it still hangs today:
And so when G brought his August of two-years-old portrait home this week, you know what we did:
And now he speaks incessantly about his haircut again.
When we were at the beach in August, the girls both got hair wraps. They'd gotten them the year before, remembered them, loved them, and were excited to sport those bright strings again. Last year G was too little to pay any mind. But this boy is aware now, let me tell you, and knows no gender gap. So when he declared a love of hair wraps, too, of course we included him.
And he loved on that hair wrap. He loved on it so much, playing with it constantly, showing it to everyone he encountered, that he eventually frayed every strand of hair it was attached to and it met its sudden demise when he accidentally pulled it right from his head.
But he never called it a hair wrap. He called it his haircut. And now when he gets a proper haircut and some unknowing person notices his shorter hair and compliments him on it, he reacts with anger or confusion. It goes like this:
"Hey, G! Looking good! Did you get a haircut this weekend?"
No! I no get a haircut! I want a haircut! I need a new haircut because my haircut is all gone! Mama, you need to take me to the beach!
Those are the noteverstill children: perplexing others since 2006.
You may have thought L's self-styling was the Haircut of the Year, but you would be wrong. The Haircut of the Year was a twist of red and black floss, and thanks to the ritual of the Busy Bees Room, it shall live on in perpetuity, amen.