First "Real" Haircut

For the last three years when my son needs his hair cut, I have done it.
It has cost suckers to get the job done -- usually five -- because he hates with a passion even the mere idea of having his hair chopped. I don't know why, but scissors terrify him. Nothing has happened, that I know of, to cause such a phobia, but nonetheless, the fear exists.
And when I mention the suckers, each lasts about forty-five seconds, as my son is a chomper, not a licker, when it comes to candy on a stick.
Lately, though, not even suckers have been enticement enough for him to sit even remotely still for a trim.
Brilliant idea, I stupidly thought, "I'll have a pro do it! AND -- I'll take the camera! (hahahahahaha!)"
Oh, bless her heart.
We walked into Super Cuts and fortunately not another soul existed in the building.
I had been prepping him for the cut -- he kept shaking his head and saying "no, it's fine! I don't NEED a cut!"
But I am stubborn. I've been told that before. I accept it.
The stylist, along with myself and my hubby all tried the gentle soothing tones that come with bribery.
"You can get a treat as soon as your hair is cut! Yay!"
The screaming started immediately, and as I was holding him in order to pin him, the first spews of vomit landed directly on me. Yes, vomit. This story is not for the weak. And, fortunately, I was caped as well as my son. Whew!
The second eruption, however, landed on a towel, as me, the stylist, and my husband were prepared for further anointing, shall we say. The problem, however, was that my son literally went face first into the towel and didn't back away from it, thus he was trying to breathe/choke/vomit simultaneously, so my solution was to throw the towel away from his being as quickly as possible. I didn't want him to aspirate. Sadly, though, there was a creature in the way of the towel's disposal: my poor husband.
While hubby went to the restroom to clean up, while I was left to try to calm the bewildered little half-shorn creature in my arms.
The stylist was "looking for toys" but I'd bet money she was drinking from a "special" flask in the back room.
I was being kicked, pummeled, and rained upon with tears while trying to tame the beast. But, bravely, we all went back in to try and finish the job.
Hair was flying, capes having been disposed, and the hair invariably rained upon me and my child, who abhors hair on his delicate skin. He whimpered, he cried, he screamed -- literally screamed, into my ear; it's still ringing -- while we held down limbs. Appendages everywhere. At one point, no joke, my husband was accidentally holding my arms down, thinking they were the boy's!
Whoosh! Off went the newest cape! Off went the vomit-soaked shirt! Powder was liberally applied across the nape of his neck to rid him of the offending hairs, but they floated across to mom, lucky me...
BUT. The important part is that we all lived to tell the tale! And obviously, pictures were NOT taken in remembrance, though the visual is burned into my brain forever.
(I wish I had a picture of my son's face when the stylist said, "We'll see you in a month!")
That boy was still angry and spitting and hissing as I put him in the car.
Then, a short while later, calm reigned in the land.
And I am still itching all over the place. I can STILL see little hairs falling off randomly.
I'm headed to the showers, and then maybe a nap of my own!