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Hair Cuts and
Rocking Chairs

 

Aaron came to me a few minutes ago asking if I'd shave his head. He does this periodically because he's developed... curls. Not the put-there kind I appear to have (I wouldn't go to that much trouble, though I have no complaints about the fact that they're there on their own) or the unruly, wavy kind my dad had, but tiny, tight curls.

At any rate, I agreed. This ritual is one of my secret MomPleasures, the opportunity to touch a head that used to fall asleep against my shoulder so many years ago. I always loved that delicate closeness you have with babies: feeling their breath, smelling their soft baby scent, touching petal-soft skin, having a tiny hand wrap tightly around your thumb and hang on.

Aaron was the only one who succumbed regularly to the slumbersong of my rocking chair. The other kids only rocked and relaxed with me in it, but Aaron would fall asleep there every evening as we rocked, watching the sky turn the deep, bright colors of sunset. It was one of those small, quiet moments that redeemed whatever else had gone on during a hectic day.

These days, trimming his hair keeps the tiny flame of those times alive.

 

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