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The First Real Haircut - Meet the Wildes
“Oh Jo, your hair! Your beautiful hair.” — Lowering the mirror, my son looked up at me. “I not Jo. I Zaza! That’s Sashie-Bashie, he’s my brother.” We had been promising ourselves for months that when they turned three, we would cut their hair. It wasn’t a gender-specific thing, we discussed it amongst ourselves and we agreed that if they were girls, we would consider cutting their hair too. The trouble was that they have both inherited my cotton-wool fine, tangly hair, and they hate to have it brushed. We agreed that we would allow them to have their hair cut because they wanted it cut, because we had sympathy for the wincing as we tried our best to detangle their bedheads before breakast. We told ourselves and each other that short hair would suit them; it would draw focus to their eyes. My mother volunteered to cut it, and we…