"Time to Shear the Sheep!"

That's what I text my brother-in-law whenever Tres needs a haircut. I think he has been conditioned to cringe slightly when that text comes through...

"Uncle A-A" has been cutting my boys' hair for years. It all started one October day when we finally noticed that our sweet 13-month-old could hardly see, because his golden white locks had grown so long. It had reached a tipping point.

AA came over to the house, we strapped Tres into his feeding chair and headed for the basement, knowing the debris would be substantial.

The second the clippers were fired up, we knew we in trouble. Tres began to violently attempt to get free of the chair, rocking back and forth and unleashing blood-curdling screams.

Repeated pleas and offerings of toys, treats and bribes were of little avail.

Thankfully we were surrounded by solid concrete block in the basement - the neighbors couldn't hear it, or we might have received an unwanted visit from the authorities.

With my wife and I holding him down, the majority of Tres' full head of hair was slowly but surely sheared off. The pile of fluffy white fur left on the ground looked like the disemboweled contents of a large stuffed animal.

Minutes later, the crying had somewhat subdued. As the clippers went back into the case and we all breathed a sign of relief, we stepped back and admired the results: A cute little guy who weighed a pound less and looked so much older!

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