Before I became a parent, I never understood why every baby I saw was a micro-version of Cousin Itt.  (I know.  You’re probably thinking Southern California is full of organic tie-dye hippie types that don’t want to disturb nature by doing anything un-natural to baby like brushing its teeth, washing its body, or doing the most anti-hippie thing possible…cutting its hair.  Well, you’re half right.)

The reason these parents don’t cut their baby’s hair is because unlike adult hair, baby hair has nerve endings that can cause baby to scream in agony when severed.  That seems to be the only logical reason why they would scream during haircuts.  Don’t worry though, they should grow out of it.

Parents get attached to their baby’s hair.  It’s that simple.  You’ve created this little monster bundle of joy and you want to know whether his or her hair will grow out curly or stay straight.  You want to know if the sun will change baby hair color better than bottle bleach.  You want to know if baby will naturally develop a ‘Billy Idol‘ or ‘Jennifer Aniston‘ hairdo.  (Don’t ask me why these two hairstyles came to mind.)  Or your kid was born with premature male pattern baldness and you’re praying for enough growth to do a combover.  We fell into this last category.

We had to let Worm’s hair grow out to cover up the baldness.  Sadly, time traded us the hairy cul-de-sac for an 80’s mullet.  Steph and I lived with our decision (to do nothing) for a while, but what message were we sending to America by letting Worm sport a mullet?  That American children should mix business with pleasure?  That it’s ok to look like a boy from the front and a girl from behind?  How could we add fuel to the gender confused fire that our country fearfully burns.  We both knew that in this day and age, our society was not advanced enough to accept the unconservative mullet hairstyle…even though Jesus rocked a feather mullet.  But, I’m not judging here.  I’m just sayin’.

Although Steph and I talked about trimming Worm’s hair for a couple months, we only made the decision after a brief (yet, life-changing) encounter with a mother and child outside our favorite Chinese food restaurant.

“How old’s your little girl?”

Perplexed that this woman couldn’t see a strapping young lad of 15 months behind his long, pretty eyelashes, delicate facial features, and curly ringlets, I played along.  “My baby is 15 months old.  Not walking yet, though.  Like your son.”

“Oh, be careful what you wish for.  Once your girl starts walking, you’ll be chasing her around everywhere.”

There she goes again.  Why does she emphasize GIRL?  At this point, I can’t just tell this lady that my ‘she’ is a ‘he’.  It’s too late.  We’re too far into our conversational relationship.  (Saying anything at this point is akin to telling your soon-to-be wife at the alter that you are starting to have second thoughts.  Awkward.)  To save her the mentally scarring thought that my son is the most effeminate boy she’s ever seen, I allow this woman to reassign Worm’s gender for the length of the conversation.

When this mom and toddler left, Steph and I figured it was time for a trim.

Dad, No Time For Cutting My Hair! I’ve Got To Figure Out What This Thing Is!