On mops and melancholy

A hasn’t had his hair cut for a year, the whole time we’ve lived in New Zealand. As it grew longer, his sandy hair gradually turned golden from the sunshine and it was lovely—when it wasn’t in his eyes or being chewed on. This last habit was what prompted the Great Haircut.



Our open-air salon and my good sport.

Unexpectedly, tears sprang to my eyes when I made the first cut. It felt a little like I was cutting freedom and sunshine and childhood.

Also, probably I just want long hair again myself. 🙂

He says he’s going to grow it out again and promises not to chew it next time it’s chin-length. We’ll see.

I left the hair out for the birds to take, but they didn’t get it all before it started raining.


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