There are moments in parenthood where you toss up a task to your partner thinking, “This should be simple enough.” And then there are moments like this one—where I sent my husband to take our 17-month-old son to get his haircut… alone.
Yes, solo. No supervision. No Pinterest inspiration photos. No emergency snacks. Just a dad and a toddler with a dangerous mix of bedhead and bounce.
I thought it was a low-risk mission. I truly did. I pictured them strolling into the little kids’ salon, the one with the firetruck chairs and cartoons on loop, where the stylists have the magical ability to snip moving targets without a single emotional breakdown.
What I did not picture was the post-cut reveal.
It started as a practical decision. We were juggling a million things that day, and I figured, “It’s just a quick trim. He’ll be fine.” I handed over a photo for reference, kissed my toddler’s sweet head, and sent them on their way with a hopeful smile.
But when they came home… my heart dropped a little.
His soft baby curls—those wispy pieces—were gone.
My husband, bless him, genuinely did his best. He thought he was checking something off the list, making things easier. And in many ways, he was.