The Boy, He is Traumatized

Daddy and I took Aaron into town last Saturday for a haircut and to run some other errands. The haircut lady asked us at the end of Aaron's cut if we would like her to just comb his hair or if we would like a spike 'do. I thought the spikes would be cute so I told her to go ahead and do that. She then stuck her comb into a vat of styling gel and came out with, to me, seemed like an abnormally large amount for his little nog. She ran the comb with the gel blob through his hair and his hair responded by spiking quite nicely.

I wasn't too sure about his new hairdo at first, it sort of made him look like a hoodlum, but as time wore on, it grew on me. I starting thinking about if we had just a regular old comb at home so that I could replicate what our stylist had done.

That's when all hell broke loose. All that hair gel started to dry and turn hard and flake and the boy realized something was a little different up there. He finally reached up and felt what was going on and started to wail. "No spikeys! No spikeys!" He did this all the way home. People, it takes us 45 minutes to get home from town, so you can imagine the frazzled nerves. Before we put him down for a nap, Daddy had to wipe his head down with a wet washcloth because it was bothering him so badly.

The weird thing now is, out of the blue, he'll turn and look at me with sad, expectant eyes and ask, "Spikeys?", as if, any minute now, I'm going to strap him down and do that to his hair again. So I reassuringly say, "No spikeys. Never, ever, ever again. No spikeys." And he'll ask at the craziest times - dinner, bathtime, grocery shopping, Reagan walks.

Very strange.