Well, it has taken almost nineteen months, but Max's hair has finally acquired enough length to require a trim. (Mostly in the front -- Max's back hairs remain short and fuzz-like, although they sometimes twine themselves into a duck curl, or a dandelion down-like plume if he sleeps on the back of his head the right way.) Ian and I have a hairdresser/friend that we love, and we have been promising her since Max's fetus-hood that she could perform the first shearing. Since Max has never had his hair cut before, and rarely even had it combed (I am not a neglectful mother, he just really hasn't had enough hair to necessitate it until very recently), we weren't sure how he would react to the invasion on his follicles. I was fairly resigned to the distinct possibility that we would come away from the experience with a son who had half a haircut, a couple of new bald spots, and a trail of angry and disappointed beauty parlor executives in his wake.
Max did not fulfill the worst of my expectations -- he didn't cry, yell, or manage to impale himself on the scissors. Neither, however, could it truthfully be said that he was a fan of the haircut. He made increasingly determined warding-off gestures when the scissors came near him, and grunted in angry warning when the scissors did not oblige him and vanish.
Teri, our hairdresser, offered Max a series of interesting hair-shaping tools to hold, in the hopes of bribing and/or distracting Max. He was intrigued by many of her offerings, and accepted them gladly ...
... but he stuck to his principles as far as the scissors were concerned. We did get the bangs trimmed down nicely, and most of the over-the-ear shagginess as well, before Max declared haircutting time officially over and made a break for the door. I tried to get a picture of the post-haircut style, but Max was somewhat uncooperative. In future blog posts, be sure to take note of his newly abbreviated tuft!