They haven't had hair this short since they were babies and that doesn't count because when you're a baby it's different hair. It's not scruffy, peanut-butter-smeared, hat-headed big-boy hair.
I keep ruffling them, feeling the shapes of their little heads. Short but not a single Little Banker in sight. Which pretty much means that if a proper hairstylist saw my children, she'd have to throw salt over her left shoulder or sprinkle garlic on her scissors or make a prayer to the heathen god of hairstylists. Woe! Hack job!
But I like it that way.
Besides. Now we get one of those braided rugs for in front of the woodstove.