“Is that a boy or a girl,” the man asked me. He sat perched atop his stool, behind his raffle tickets watching Henry has he ran back and forth. It took me a moment to respond and I was almost tempted to ask something about this man’s gender, considering his long gray and frizzing hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

Instead, I offered up a fake smile and said, “he’s a boy.”

How hard is it to tell Henry’s gender when he’s wearing little boy clothing? I know what the older gentleman was thinking. He was basically trying his hand at small talk, chit-chat (a complete waste of time in my book), and didn’t want to offend me. I can hardly blame him because at times I’ve wondered myself about the gender of children especially when those children have long hair.

I suppose it was this little “talk” that pushed me to finally cave and cut Henry’s hair.

I’ve waited so long. I’ve pushed it off and pushed it off and I don’t know why. I’ve always been one of those people who doesn’t like little boys to have long hair, but for some odd reason with Henry I’ve let it keep going and going. Some tell me it’s because at some point I subconsciously hoped Henry would have been a little girl. Pish posh! I love having two little boys. So, why have I waited so long?

I think it’s because his curls have just helped to keep him as a little baby. When I looked at him, with the little “wings” of curls tipping up at the top of his ears, and the tendril ringlets flowing down his neck, I saw a sweet, innocent little baby. I saw something that needed me, that wanted me, that hugged me. They made him angelic.

When I would put a baseball cap on his head, and the little blond wisps would escape out through the sides and opening in the back, I thought he was my little redneck baby. He was my little Southern country boy and it made me smile.

But now as the weather is warming up and old men with their own long hair are questioning my son, I decided it was time to cut his hair. I think I handled it well. Not one tear fell down my cheek, but a knot did form in my throat. I’m so proud of him. He sat tall and proud in my lap, while his hair was combed and then the first little snippet was made. I gasped and he quickly looked around at me and then placed a hand on my cheek as if to say, “it’ll be alright, mommy.”

After some more snips and cuts, and then a few minutes more of combing his hair to one side, a little boy emerged. A handsome little boy, no longer a baby, but a little boy who no one should ever question again.

Last night, as I watched him play with his brother, I couldn’t help but smile. He is quite the handsome little devil and I swear, that one little haircut makes him look like he’s grown three inches.