When our son got a haircut in the summer before Grade 3, we had no idea he wouldn’t let scissors touch it until almost the end of Grade 5.

Growing his hair long was never something he planned. It just kept growing, little by little, and he kept preferring to keep it that way. It spilled over his eyes until it could be tucked behind his ears, and it crept over his collar and past his shoulders until it was halfway down his back.

People asked him when he’d cut it, and he’d shrug. They’d ask how long he planned on growing it, and he’d shrug again. He really didn’t know.

His hair grew so long that he grudgingly agreed to wear it in a ponytail for taekwondo because it was uncomfortable having it hang over his neck, thick and sweaty. It started to tangle when I brushed it in the mornings before school, and he hated that, too.

When I measured it and told him it was long enough to donate to a charity that makes wigs for sick children, he loved the idea and decided we should book a haircut. We divided it into rubber bands, just like the donation website specified, and I held my breath while our stylist chopped off his long, thick hair.

Holding two long ponytails in his hands, the first thing he exclaimed was “It’s so short!” The second thing he said was “Now people won’t call me a girl anymore!”