My first born's hair was getting rather shaggy and he inherited from his father a tendency to sweat profusely at the slightest rise in temperature and/or physical activity. Thus, today I took William for a haircut.
He asked if he was going to the place where you sit in a car while your hair is being cut, but that place is twice as much money as the cheap place on the corner, so the cheap place on the corner is where we went. He got in the car without protest. He happily entered the establishment and began playing with their bucket of broken Power Ranger Zords.
When his turn came up he doddled at the toy bin. Jadzia came right up and said "I want to do it" so her turn was first. I'm growing her bangs out and she likes pony tails so we kept the back long too. In other words her hair ended up looking exactly the same. If she didn't have a brother, Jadzia would never enter a salon of any kind.
William's turn, take two. He refused to sit in the chair because "He didn't know how he wanted it." I got out the boys haircut book and went through it with him. He answered "No" and "I don't know" to every selection. He repeated over and over that he just didn't know what he wanted and started to cry.
The stylists tried to help by offering a lollipop and telling him it wouldn't hurt. He knows it won't hurt. He's had hundreds of haircuts. He did fine every other time, including his first cut when he was a baby. Why the protest?
We let four people go in front of us. William stopped crying and seemed calm, but he exhibited passive-aggressive-on-the-verge-of-tantrum behaviour; rocking in his chair, stomping his feet, evil-glaring at me. I told him I wasn't going to leave until his hair was cut.
Finally I dragged him kicking and screaming to the chair. Since he was fighting, the stylist had limited options. I held his arms while she buzzed him with #2 clippers. This was one of the worst experiences of my life, right up there with treetop walking and childbirth. He behaved as if he was being tortured. Even though we all know that haircuts don't hurt, he screamed "Ow!" over and over.
The result was perfect for an army private or prison inmate, and actually kind of cute on my brown-eyed little man.
The fight didn't end there. He tantrumed while we went to buy toilet paper (because I need to wipe bums more than I need to avoid making a scene in a store). He told me he didn't like me no less than four times. By the time we got home, the fit had become about him wanting to have a bath.
Alas, to get to the bathtub, William had to pass a mirror, which set him off again. "I don't like my haircut!" "I don't want to go to school with this haircut!" "I want my hair back right now!" Jadzia enjoyed his bath while he tantrumed, only getting in when the water was cold (and probably peed in).
Later, I messaged my husband to tell him I would never ever ever ever take William to get his haircut ever again. It should definitely be a father-son thing.