My son says no.
I am contemplating no shaving or hair cutting for myself until my wife comes back from her January conference. I'll look delightful (Disclaimer: The fact that I might look like a small, deformed Thundercat is neither here nor there). I feel like actually having a good go at a winter beard. I often imagine I'll look like a handsome Viking. At the very least I'd like to have a somewhat enchanting-but-scary Roy Keane look. My son agrees. Mostly because his mother has been repeating, "....your hair is getting interesting..." at him. Which it is. It's more stylish and awesome than any young twenty-something could hope for. He makes no effort to do it either. I wish I had his hair. But what his mother is forgetting is that every single time she cuts his hair she regrets having done it. He's a cute little boy - but with a haircut he does have a bit of a potato look about him. And nobody thinks a potato is attractive. I'm sure none of you have ever read a gushing magazine article about how gorgeous human-potato Wayne Rooney is. Which reminds me of something I was thinking about a month or so ago. Do you remember years ago when they had those clocks powered by a potato? Whatever happened to that design concept? Just imagine it - an enormous Wayne Rooney powered clock.)
My daughter loves getting her hair cut. And now that every trace of red hair and all remnants of any of her ludicrous curls are gone a shortish haircut is the best bet for her. It certainly is easier at breakfast to not have to remind her that he hair is in her oatmeal. Or that she's dipped it in her paint/glue/filth. And having just put a balaclava thing on her to play in the snow I can't articulate enough how annoying it was when her long hair kept sticking out and getting caked in snowballs and snot. Shorter hair wins for her.
As for me - I always look better with short hair. And I always threaten to leave it grow out just because it sounds comfortable to have a fat head. We shall see. But I thought I'd propose the options to my son. And then enrage him (not caught on film, thankfully) when I let him know that I'm not cutting my hair or shaving.