I laughed when Zac and I managed to smear sweet potatoes all over his face during his first feeding.
I followed him through the house with the camcorder when he started to crawl. I clapped when he took his first steps and almost cried tears of joy when he said “Mama” for the first time.
However, there is one important first that I have been dreading — baby’s first haircut.
Wyatt is going to be 2 soon and I have never let scissors near those precious locks.
I’ve been afraid that if I agree to even the teeniest, tiniest trim, then all of his beautiful red curls will be gone.
As I’ve mentioned before, Wyatt’s hair is one of his trademark features. Strangers regularly stop us in public to comment on it, and my little flirt loves all of the attention it earns him from the ladies.
It’s almost hard to believe that while I was in labor, the doctor said he didn’t have any hair.
Actually, she just had a hard time seeing it. He was born with some strawberry blond fuzz on the very top and back of his head.
For a while, it was pretty obvious that Wyatt had inherited his daddy’s high forehead, but by his first birthday it became clear that he was going to have my curls to help cover it up.
Now Wyatt looks like a rough-and-tumble Shirley Temple. He frequently gets mistaken for a girl because, as more than one person has said, “He’s just too pretty to be a boy.”
After Wyatt sleeps on those ringlets all night, he wakes up looking like a miniature Bozo the clown. It’s so adorable that I usually leave it like that.
When it’s slicked down and fluffed a little in the back, I almost feel sorry for all the girls whose hearts Wyatt is destined to break in a few years.
As much as I couldn’t stand the thought of cutting Wyatt’s hair, I began preparing myself for the inevitable shortly after he turned 1. I had heard that’s usually when most babies get their first trim.
Thankfully, Wyatt’s hair looks shorter than it really is because of the curls, allowing me an extra year to say good-bye.
I’m still not ready, but my husband and mother assure me that it’s time.
One of Wyatt’s new tricks is taking a strand of hair and pulling it down past his nose to show us how long it is.
Zac isn’t helping matters by gathering it all up into a ponytail whenever he’s trying to tell me why Wyatt needs a haircut.
I can also understand my mother’s point that all that hair is going to be hot on the baby this summer.
So I broke down a couple of weeks ago and agreed to a trim for Wyatt. I joked that it would probably be a waste of money because I wasn’t going to let the stylist take off more than a quarter of an inch.
Zac and I decided that we would go as a family and get our hair cut too so Wyatt would see that there was nothing to be afraid of.
That plan, like most of the ones the Cohrons cook up, did not go as expected.
Our first attempt was a disaster for multiple reasons, one of which being that Wyatt freaked out as soon as I sat down in the barber’s chair.
Wyatt screamed the whole way home. We let him nap it off and then took him to Wal-mart for a second go.
He saw Zac and I get our hair cut at the salon there once. Every time we’ve passed it since, he pats his head to show that he knows what goes on in there.
He knew alright. As soon as we walked in, he started shaking his head, pointed in the other direction and whimpered, “Go. Go.”
We stayed for several minutes hoping that we would start to feel more comfortable, but his skinny little arms never left my neck. We eventually admitted defeat.
Some of my friends could hardly contain their excitement when I told them I didn’t need to cry on their shoulders because no curls had been lost.
Even my mother sounded a little relieved when I called to tell her that her pumpkin had not been a cooperative customer.
Zac is now threatening to go without a hair cut as long as Wyatt is holding out. Soon I’m going to be living with father-son hippies.
I say peace, love and long live the curls.