The only time I get the dropkick to the gut panic attack is on haircut day. Here was Baby Finn last week:
And here's Prep School Finn this week:
Liam had his first professional haircut in years recently and he resisted a little. This was sufficient enough for me to unilaterally decide he should be spared the trauma of future pro-cuts, so I've reappointed myself as Liam's official groomer and have gone back to giving him mini-cuts that take no fewer than six days to complete. It's for his own good.
I know I don't have to worry just yet. It's not as though the boys are aloof and withholding affection. Quite the opposite actually:
It's just the intolerable shock of it all, like a few snips with a pair of scissors trimmed away half a decade. I don't like it. Some people say it's a "healthy splash of cold water" that will help me live in the present. Those people always make me wish I carried a five-gallon "healthy splash of cold water" with me at all times.