He screamed. And screamed. And screamed. And SCREAMED.
I'm not talking a "Hey! I LIKE my hair! What are you doing to it?" scream. It was more like a "OH MY GOD!!! You're trying to take my arm off! And this is terrifying! Is that a butcher knife??? How could you DO this to me?!?!?!" kind of scream. John had to physically hold him down (after we were moved to the back room so we wouldn't terrify the other patrons) to get the cut done.
It was awful.
Anyone who has grown children says to cherish every moment because childhood goes too fast, but then when my boy's hair gets a little long those same people will tell say, "Wow, he needs a hair cut!"... even AFTER I tell them the haircut story. Well, I decided that life is too short to fight with my children over the length of their hair. I'd rather fight the no-peeing-in-the-house battle. Or the stop-hitting-your-brother battle. I'm completely over the society-says-your-hair-should-be-short-so-I'm-cutting-it battle.
But that doesn't mean I don't like his hair to be short. It's cooler. I don't have to wash it as often. And Hank can't pull it.
So John found a way to get Johnny to cut his hair voluntarily. And all it cost John was his beard and mustache.
|He took his job VERY seriously.|
|Not bad, Johnny. Not bad.|
|His hair - after shearing|