I try to manage my children’s hair as best I can. This is just one of those areas of life that I am inadequate in. I can’t manage my own hair, much less other people’s. Will makes me cut his, but he wears the “messy” look. Therefore, if it’s a bit uneven, who would know? Stella has “long beautiful mermaid hair.” In other words, it’s long and straight. Every 6 months or so, I manage to trim off dead ends. I think it’s pretty even. But she is always in motion, so again, who would know if it’s a little off? As for me? I shouldn’t be allowed to have hair. I wash it as often as I can. I brush it. That’s it. It’s getting long again, which means it’s once again landing in the mom-ponytail more often than not.
And then there’s my little dude. I have no idea what to do with little boy hair. While I have no problem with long hair on guys, I just don’t think it would suit my kid. And he’s 2, so we’re nowhere near ready for “product.” So, I’ve had to sort out children’s haircuts.
There’s one of those specialty kids places near our house. It’s cute. It’s cute as hell. The kids can sit in firetruck or police car chairs. They have suckers and animal crackers. Disney movies play on the entertainment system, visible from every seat. There’s a train table and other toys. The staff is quick like lightning to cut hair, the knowledge that their clients are often seconds from a meltdown or full-on body twitch always first and foremost in their minds. The catch? It costs about twice as much. No matter. I only get my kid’s hair cut ever other month or so, so it’s been worth it.
We recently reached critical hair mass. His “bangs” were long enough to reach his eyes. I tried to touch up the back but realized I had left my tranquilizer gun in my other purse. No way. In short: it was time to take my son for a haircut. We loaded up and went to the fancy place, aiming to be there right at opening. We arrived with 10 minutes to spare.
It was a children’s hair salon nightmare. We walked up and were surrounded by blond haired blue-eyed perfectly adorable children. Each of them was wearing a positively precious smocked ensemble. You know the ones I’m talking about: the ones that retail for about $75 apiece. Still, my kid needed a haircut too. So Felix and I joined the ranks of the wee Stepford army.
The other children all stood, waiting very patiently in the hot burning sun. Felix was already dirty and sweaty, and that was before the screaming and thrashing began. We lasted for about four minutes, the crowd of perfect angelic children growing larger by the minute. Dozens of blue eyes stared at my son. They were judging. I know they were judging. So were their mothers.
I finally bailed and we set out for one of those cheap discount haircut places. We walked in, sat right down, and were out of there in under 10 minutes. Felix got a sucker. And we only paid half of what we would have at Salon Stepford. Lesson learned.