Shorn

Well, the day of reckoning came and went: we got Ariel his first haircut. And nothing earth-shattering occurred. No volcanoes erupted. Believe it or not, his personality didn't even change.

For those of you who were under the impression that we'd be letting it grow until he turned 3, it was never our custom or plan to do so. We cut Elan's hair at a year, and only left Ariel with long, wild ringlets, because, well, he had long, wild ringlets. And they were so. Freakin. Cute.

It fit his personality, too, to have long hair. He's our wild-child, the one who goes where the wind blows, the relaxed one. The - though I hate to say it outright - easy one. Sure, he hates sleep. But he likes just about everything else, and has always seemed to maintain a zest for adventure, an up-for-anything attitude that his older brother has yet to visit.

Y and I are continually shocked by Ariel's frequent displays of normalcy, mainly because the experience is so new to us. Because Elan so despises change of virtually any kind, anything remotely unfamiliar becomes a fight. We're having lunch at some friends, and ask Elan to go sit at the kids' table with everyone else under three feet tall. He looks at us, questioningly, like, Surely you can't be serious. Can you give me one good reason why that would BE OKAY?

We shrug, let him work his way onto our laps, eating from our plates.

Ariel, why don't you take your plate over to the kids' table with your friends?

And just like that, he goes. He plops down, and begins to eat. Independently. No fight, no argument. No "no," for No's own sake. He just goes.

Y and I look at each other, confused. This can't be our child.

Later, we discuss it.

"You know," I whisper, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the subject is nowhere within earshot. "Ariel drinks milk. WITH CALCIUM IN IT. I don't have to convince him or anything. He likes it!"

Y is surprised. "But that's so...normal. Only Normal Kids drink milk. Not ours."

"I know. I don't understand it either," I reply.

"Unless..." Y begins.

"Unless what?"

"Well, unless it's just Elan who doesn't do those things. Unless 'our kids' do, it's just Elan who doesn't. Maybe he's set the tone, but he's only HALF of 'our kids.'"

Simple, huh? Well, I hadn't thought of that.

We didn't understand it when Ariel marched into our neighbor's house to play - lay on their couch on his belly, legs up and chin in hands to watch Sponge Bob - despite the fact that his twice-as-old brother wouldn't dream of it, were I not by his side. Neighbors in our building.

And I'll be completely honest. We kind of attributed it to his hair.

Y did, especially. He was terrified, irrational as it sounded, that Ariel's personality would change if we changed his 'do. That he'd become less fun. And he felt so strongly against cutting it that he threatened to buzz-cut it entirely should he, one day, come home to such a travesty.

So I left it alone, even though most strangers assumed he was a girl. It was a pain to wash and impossible to brush and perpetually in his eyes - but I left it alone. He allowed his teacher to French-braid it, but I was barely allowed to touch it, he claimed it hurt so much. Still, he looked cute. Even if his head typically smelled of maple syrup.

Lately, though, Ariel was channeling more Mad Scientist than Bohemian Rockstar. His hair got kind of frizzy, the curls less defined, like when humidity does its magic on your professional blow-out and you wind up wearing a hat. Only Ariel never wears hats. He just looked crazy.

And he was genuinely uncomfortable. I convinced Y that it wasn't really fair to allow Ariel's hair to cramp his style for our viewing pleasure. So we got it cut. We took him to Tony, of course, even though he doesn't cut curly hair well, because we are loyal. And there was something touching about having him cut four generations of hair for Y's family.

At first, Ariel was a little scared, and cried. This was to be expected:

Soon, however, he realized that he was the CENTER of attention, and began to enjoy it as only a free spirit could. This, too, was to be expected:

And finally, the new Ariel emerged. Shorn. Slick. Older. Almost unrecognizable.

And looking more like a girl than ever. Apparently, the hair had nothing to do with it.

It was the lips all along.