Haircut One

It's the New World.

Gone are the days of the pudding-bowl daggers-at-dusk two-shakes-of-a-lamb's-tail look-after-the-pennies-and-personal-esteem-will-look-after-itself mother's cut; this is twenty-first century suburban narcissistic Australia and on this, the twenty-third of September, just shy of her second birthday, Lyra visited the salon for the first time to have her hair cut, for the first time.

It says something of young Nicole's devotion to her studies that she decided that she couldn't be there for this most auspicious of events, and it's a gratifying testimony of her faith in me to keep my mouth should and trust the Professionals to get on with the job and make the critical decisions in a timely manner.

It was a worry, in the loosest possible sense of the word, to have Lightning Lyra in such close proximity (what other kind of proximity is there?) to scissors with molecule-sharp edges, but with Eloise in tow, Lyra was putty in young Tom's culpable hands as he proceeded to sculpt, yes sculpt her hair into what can only be described as a Blunt Bob (because that's what he described it as).

Eloise was next, and, sassooned member of the preened clientele that she is, she simply proceeded to the basin to have her hair deep-cleansed then straightened, as usual, and sculpted yes sculpted I tell you into what I can only describe as a style of some kind whose name I don't know because I wasn't sufficiently interested to ask, beautiful though it , and she, is, and are.

Lovely!

Afterwards we went to New Farm Park with Mum and messed it all up.